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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

GIFT  OF 

PROFESSOR 
GEORGE  R.  STEWART 


» 


University  of  California  •  Berkeley 


Digitized  by  tine  Internet  Arciiive 

in  2007  witii  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


littp://www.arcliive.org/details/amarantliortokenoOOpercricli 


THE 


AMAEANTH: 


OR, 


TOKEN   OF   REMEMBRANCE 


mxmmu  M&  §m  %m'^  &>lit 


EDITED    BY 

EMILY   PERCITAL. 


NEW   YORK: 

PUBLISHED   BY   LEAVITT   &    ALLEN. 


CONTENTS, 


rO  JULIET, 9 

EDUCATED  WOMEN, 11 

FAITH'S  VIGIL, 87 

THE  MANGLING  llOOM, 29 

THE  WISH, 49 

FOREST  OF  ARDEN, 51 

THE  JEWELLER'S  DAUGHTER, 53 

STANZAS, 95 

THE  VOYAGE  OF  THE  FANCIES, 97 

OLIVIA, 100 

THE  STORY  OF  ANGELIQUE, 102 

THE  WAYSIDE  BROOK, 129 

TO  THE  FRIEND  OF  MY  HEART, 131 

A  STROLL  BY  THE  RIVER  AMSTEL, 134 

OLD  CHRISTMAS, 148 

CLOUD  MUSINGS MB 

1*  (6) 


g  CONTENTS. 

DAY,  .  157 

LEICESTER  ABBEY, 160 

MKS.  SMITH  AND  HER  COUSIN  FANNY,      .  .        .    162 

SCANDAL  IN   FAIRYLAND,  .  .  ....    173 

LIFE'S  KOH-I-NOOR, 175 

MR.  JOHN  CAMPBELL'S  MISTAKES 178 

SONNET, 197 

MIRANDA, 198 

KATIE  YALE'S  MARRIAGE, 200 

FAITH,      .  210 

AN  HOUR  IN  A  DAGUERRIAN  GALLEBT,  .        .       .       .211 

CHRISTMAS  THOUGHTS, 286 

LOOK  BEFORE  THEE, .  .    9S8 

THE  IMAGE  OF  LOVE  IN  CLAY, 230 

DESPAIR  NOT,      .  260 

TO  MY  BELOVED,  .  961 

SOUTHAMPTON, 263 

THE  FATAL  CORRESPONDENCE,  265 

SONNET, 279 

FAR  FROM  THE  HUM  OF  MEN,  280 


THE  AMAEANTH 


TO  JULIET. 

Sweet  lady,  look  not  thus  again  ; 

Those  bright,  deluding  smiles  recall ; 
A  maid  remembered  now  with  pain, 

Who  was  my  love,  my  life,  my  all. 

O,  while  this  heart  bewildered  took 
Sweet  poison  from  her  thrilling  eye, 

Thus  would  she  smile,  and  lisp,  and  look 
And  I  would  hear,  and  gaze,  and  sigh. 

Yes,  I  did  love  her  —  wildly  love  ; 

She  was  her  sex's  best  deceiver ; 
And  oft  she  swore  she'd  never  rove ; 

And  I  was  destined  to  believe  her. 

(9) 


10  TO   JULIET. 

Then,  lady,  do  not  wear  the  smile 

Of  one  whose  smile  could  thus  betray ; 

Alas  !  I  think  the  lovely  wile 
Again  could  steal  my  heart  away. 

For,  when  those  spells  that  charmed  my  mind 
On  lips  so  pure  as  thine  I  see, 

I  fear  the  heart  which  she  resigned 
Will  err  again  and  fly  to  thee. 


EDUCATED  WOMEN. 


BY    MRS     ABDT. 


Let  not  my  readers  be  alarmed  at  the  title  of  my 
paper.  I  am  not  going  to  advocate  the  claims  of  lady 
colleges,  on  the  one  hand,  or  cookery  schools,  on  the 
other.  I  hold  that  education  to  be  the  best  which  not 
only  fits  a  woman  for  the  station  which  she  is  likely  to 
fill  in  the  world,  but  which  so  strengthens  her  character 
that,  should  fortune  see  fit  to  elevate  her  to  a  higher  or 
depress  her  to  a  lower  station,  she  would  still  be  able  to 
act  in  becoming  accordance  with  its  duties.  Illustration 
is  often  better  than  precept :  I  will  therefore  give  a 
short  sketch  of  three  married  women  of  my  acquaint- 
ance who,  in  my  opinion,  admirably  exemplify  the  effects 
of  a  judicious  education ;  but,  lest  my  readers  should 
surmise  that  I  am  about  to  inflict  upon  them  the  delin- 
eation of  paragons  of  perfection,  I  Avill  tell  them  before- 
hand that  each  of  these  exemplary  persons  possesses 
one  fault,  which  I  am  about  to  point  out,  with  the  hope 

(11) 


12  EDUCATED    WOMEN. 

that,  in  their  case  as  well  as  in  that  of  many  others,  it 
may  be  not  only  confessed,  but  amended. 

Lady  Corwyn  was  the  daughter  of  a  quiet  widow 
with  a  moderate  income,  who  was  prevented,  partly  by 
ill  health  and  partly  by  an  indolent  disposition,  from 
introducing  her  daughter  into  general  society.  Sir 
James  Corwyn,  however,  a  baronet  with  a  fine  country 
seat  and  fifteen  thousand  a  year,  obtained  an  introduc- 
tion to  the  secluded  fair  one  at  the  house  of  one  of  her 
relations,  and  a  marriage  took  place.  Twenty  years 
have  elapsed  since  that  event.  Lady  Corwyn  is  now 
eight  and  thirty;  and  her  country  neighbors  and  her 
London  associates,  her  husband's  friends,  nay,  even  her 
husband's  family,  those  chartered  critics  of  a  wife's 
sayings  and  doings,  unite  in  praising  the  uniform  pro- 
priety of  her  conduct  —  propriety  which  does  not  array 
itself  in  buckram,  but  which  is  evinced  by  the  exquisite 
good  taste  and  ease  with  which  every  relaxation  of  life 
is  enjoyed,  every  social  and  domestic  duty  performed. 
Sir  James  Corwyn  and  his  family  pass  the  spring  in 
London ;  it  is  his  wish  that  his  wife  should  mingle  with 
the  gay  world ;  and  she  does  so  cheerfully  and  wilhngly 
She  is  no  flirt ;  yet  men  love  to  congregate  around  her 
and  to  listen  to  her  animated,  sparkhng  anecdotes.  She 
is  no  flatterer ;  yet  women  consult  her  in  their  millinery 
dilemmas  and  girls  eagerly  seek  her  as   a   chaperon. 


EDI^CATKD    WOMEV.  13 

Eight  months  of  the  year,  ho v^  ever,  she  passes  at  her 
husband's  country  seat ;  here  she  is  the  kind  benefactress 
of  the  poor  and  the  wise  and  prudent  manager  of  her 
household.  She  keeps  up  an  extensive  circle  of  visiting 
acquaintance ;  but,  as  her  habits  are  very  active,  she 
finds  time  for  many  other  pursuits,  from  the  cultivation 
of  her  mind  to  that  of  her  flower  garden,  from  playing 
chess  and  singing  duets  with  her  husband  to  directing 
the  studies  and  sharing  the  pastimes  of  her  children. 
She  has  a  son,  nineteen  years  of  age,  who  is  already 
distinguished  by  his  talent  and  excellence,  and  two 
daughters,  of  fifteen  and  sixteen,  who  have  not  yet 
"  come  out."  When  they  do  so  it  is  predicted  that  they 
will  meet  with  excellent  opportunities  of  marrying. 
Girls  brought  up  under  the  inspection  of  such  a  mother 
may  be  safely  trusted  to  make  admirable  wives. 

Mrs.  Stafford  is  about  nine  and  twenty ;  ten  years  ago 
she  married  a  very  rich  merchant ;  her  tastes  and  habits 
were  expensive ;  she  enjoyed  her  splendid  dresses  and 
elegant  carriages.  These  inclinations,  however,  qualified 
her  but  the  more  for  the  station  she  was  called  upon  to 
fill.  Stafford  valued  wealth  not  for  its  own  sake,  but 
for  the  sake  of  the  luxuries  that  it  procured ;  and  a  vvife 
incapable  of  spending  money  would  have  been  in  his 
(^}>inion  quite  unworthy  of  possessing  it.  Yet  Mrs. 
Srafibrd  was  no  frivolous,  thoughtless  worldling ;    two 


14  EDUCATED    WOMEN. 

points  she  strenuously  urged  on  her  husband  —  to  give 
liberally  in  charity  from  his  abundance,  and  to  abstain 
from  all  speculative  attempts  to  increase  the  fortune 
which  was  already  more  than  sufficient  for  every  rea- 
sonable want  and  wish.  Stafford  was  quite  willing  to 
oblige  his  wife  in  the  first  particular.  So  long  as  she 
did  not  require  him  to  devote  his  time  and  thoughts  to 
the  service  of  his  distressed  fellow-creatures  she  might 
command  checks  on  his  banker  for  their  use ;  but  the 
second  part  of  her  counsel  was  more  difficult  to  follow. 
Stafford  entered  into  a  tempting  speculation ;  it  failed, 
embarrassments  ensued,  and,  although  he  was  enabled 
to  pay  every  body,  he  was  reduced  to  the  very  unpleas- 
ant necessity  of  —  so  runs  the  mercantile  phrase  — 
"  beginning  life  again."  To  "  begin  life  again  "  is  the 
frequent  aspiration  of  poets ;  but  it  is  very  seldom  de- 
siderated by  merchants,  still  less  by  merchants'  wives. 
Stafford  felt  the  shock  even  more  for  his  dear,  indulged, 
pampered  wife  than  he  did  for  himself;  but  he  was 
speedily  comforted  and  encouraged  by  the  mingled  spirit 
and  sweetness  with  w^hich  she  accommodated  herself  to 
her  new  situation.  She  parted  with  her  jewels,  locked 
up  I  er  finery,  and  looked  far  prettier  in  a  muslin  dress 
and  straw  bonnet  than  she  had  ever  done  in  the  most 
elaborate  Paris  fashions.  She  managed  her  little  house- 
hold so   well  that  it  did   not   bear   tlie   appearance  of 


EDUCATED    WOMEN.  15 

having  cost  her  any  trouble  to  manage  ;  neither  did  she 
make  a  point  of  abjuring  recreations  and  amusements. 
The  well-chosen  books  arrayed  in  splendid  bindings  had 
passed  into  other  hands;  but  cheap  literature  and  a 
subscription  to  a  neighboring  circulating  library  supplied 
the  deficiency.  Balls  and  banquets  were  henceforth  to 
be  unknown  to  her  husband  and  herself;  but  the  lecture 
room,  the  concert  room,  and  the  social  meeting  at  a 
friend's  house  remained  open  to  them.  Carriages  and 
horses  were  extinct ;  but  IVIrs.  Stafford's  step  was  more 
light  and  the  roses  bloomed  more  freshly  in  her  cheeks 
Bince  she  had  been  what  her  commiserating  friends  de- 
nominated "  reduced  to  walking."  No  one  said  of  Mrs 
Stafford  that  she  bore  her  altered  circumstances  well, 
for  she  did  not  seem  to  consider  them  as  troubles ;  she 
was  just  as  smiling,  happy,  and  pleasant  as  when  en- 
cumbered with  a  large  house,  a  colony  of  servants,  and 
an  income  to  match.  She  will  not  long,  however,  con- 
tinue to  live  in  a  confined  manner ;  for  I  have  just  heard 
of  the  death  of  a  relation  of  Stafford's,  who  cut  him  out 
of  his  will  for  marrying  a  fine  lady,  and  put  him  in 
again  when  his  reverse  of  fortune  discovered  to  his 
friends  that  a  fine  lady  may  be  a  very  earnest,  simple, 
loving  woman.  I  believe  the  money  that  Stafford  will 
inherit  amounts  to  a  large  sum ;  but  no  matter  :  I  have 
80  firm  a  trust  in  the  consistency  of  Mrs.  Stafford  that 


16  EDUCATED    WOMEN. 

I  should  not  fear  for  her  even  if  it  were  discovered  thai 
her  husband  possessed  a  vested  right  in  the  largest  gold 
field  in  Austraha. 

My  third  paragon,  IMi-s.  Rushton,  is  the  wife  of  a 
country  clergyman ;  she  is  four  and  twenty  years  old 
and  much  handsomer  than  my  other  two  favorites  —  in 
fact,  she  is  a  decided  beauty ;  and  when,  at  the  age  of 
eighteen,  she  was  well  introduced  into  the  gay  world  by 
an  aunt,  and  known  to  be  the  independent  possessor  of 
ten  thousand  pounds,  no  one  can  be  surprised  that  her 
conquests  were  many  and  extensive ;  she  was  the  belle 
of  the  ball  room,  the  goddess  of  tableaux  vivans,  the 
heroine  of  acted  charades  ;  verses  were  written  to  her, 
sketches  were  made  of  her,  and  hearts  and  hands  — 
some  of  them  very  desirable  ones  —  were  proffered 
to  her  acceptance.  Her  aunt  was  never  easy  but  in 
society,  and  certainly  she  rejoiced  in  a  most  complaisant 
niece ;  the  young  beauty  was  never  tired,  never  low 
spirited,  never  pale,  never  sleepy,  never  troubled  with 
the  headache.  For  three  years  she  remained  in  a  con- 
stant vortex  of  amusement  and  dissipation,  till  at  length 
she  made  choice  of  one  of  her  suitors ;  and  to  the  as- 
tonishment of  every  body  he  proved  to  be  a  quiet  coun- 
try clergyman  residing  in  a  distant  village  on  a  small 
living.  Poor  man  !  I  wonder  that  he  ever  found  cour- 
age to  propose  to  her.     How  divided  he  must  have 


EDUCATED    WOMEN.  17 

been  ])etween  fear  of  being  refused  and  fear  of  gaining 
a  very  unsuitable  wife  for  himself  if  he  should  be  ac- 
cepted !  Her  aunt  vehemently  opposed  her  marriage ; 
but,  as  she  was  of  age,  it  was  impossible  to  prevent  it ; 
and,  as  the  income  which  her  lover  derived  from  his 
living  was  somewhat  more  than  she  herself  drew  from 
her  ten  thousand  pounds,  all  threats  held  out  of  ultimate 
starvation  were  of  course  to  be  regarded  in  a  metaphor- 
ical point  of  view.  The  beautiful  bride  entered  on  the 
duties  of  a  clergyman's  wife  not  only  with  cheerfulness, 
but  with  a  tact  and  activity  which  surprised  every  one. 
I  could  quite  conceive  that  her  fine  sense  and  fine  prin- 
ciples would  enable  her  to  "  quit  the  flaunting  town " 
without  regret  when  she  had  once  made  up  her  mind  to 
do  so.  I  could  also  well  understand  that,  loving  as  she 
did  deeply  and  truly,  the  affection  of  one  fond,  faithful 
heart  would  far  outweigh  all  the  triumphs  and  flatteries 
of  society ;  but  I  cannot  even  now  quite  comprehend 
how  she  became  at  once  as  if  by  intuition  so  versed  in 
her  new  pursuits  that  any  body  might  suppose  she  had 
been  teaching  schools  and  visiting  cottagers  all  her  life. 
JNIrs.  Rushton  has  refused  all  offers  from  her  husband  to 
take  her  occasionally  to  London  or  to  a  watering-place  ; 
tlie  little  village  where  her  home  is  fixed  may  occupy  a 
very  insignificant  position  in  the  map  of  England,  but 
to  her  it  is  a  scene  of  perfect  and  unvarying  h^j)piness 


18  EDUCATED    WOMEX. 

and  the  veriest  dowdy  who  ever  vegetated  m  seclusion 
from  childhood  to  womanhood  could  not  make  a  more 
quiet,  contented,  unassuming  wife  for  a  country  pastor 
than  does  the  darling  of  society,  the  flattered  ball-room 
beauty. 

The  three  ladies  whose  characters  I  have  endeavored 
to  sketch  are  of  different  ages  and  move  in  different 
circles.  They  do  not  know  each  other  —  nay,  as  far  as 
I  am  aware,  they  have  never  even  heard  of  each  other ; 
and  yet  they  each  have  precisely  the  same  fault  in  pre- 
cisely the  same  degree.  But  before  I  mention  it  I 
must  trespass  on  the  patience  of  my  readers  for  a  short 
time  while  I  delineate  to  them  yet  one  other  person. 

There  is  a  neat,  trim  row  of  houses  in  Brompton, 
bearing  that  peculiar  air  which  denotes  that  they  are  let 
out  in  lodgings.  In  oi^e  of  them  the  parlor  and  bed 
room  on  the  ground  floor  are  occupied  by  an  elderly 
lady  named  Allen ;  she  is  thoroughly  the  gentlewoman 
in  manner  and  appearance ;  and  the  beautiful  drawings 
and  tasteful  pieces  of  needlework  which  form  the  prin- 
cipal ornament  of  her  little  parlor  have  owed  their  ex- 
istence to  her  owTi  skilful  and  active  hand.  I  cannot 
say  that  I  consider  IVIrs.  Allen  a  very  happy  person ;  it 
is  far  from  being  my  habit  to  estimate  felicity  in  refer- 
ence to  pounds,  shillings,  and  pence ;  but  a  certain 
roominess  of  income  —  to  use  the  expression  of  an  old- 


EDUCATED    WOMEN.  19 

fashioned  friend  of  mine  —  is,  in  my  opinion,  quite  ne- 
cessary for  comfort ;  and  this  it  is  not  Mrs.  Allen's  loi 
to  enjoy.  Her  table,  dress,  and  apartments,  although 
managed  with  the  strictest  economy,  merge  nearly  the 
whole  of  her  moderate  life  annuity;  and  she  has  nothing 
to  spare  from  it  for  the  little  indulgences  of  life.  She 
is  of  a  social  temper  and  has  great  powers  of  conversa- 
tion ;  but  she  pays  and  receives  very  few  visits.  She 
has  outlived  her  relations;  some  of  her  friends  have 
forgotten  her,  others  live  at  a  distance  from  her ;  and 
she  cannot  make  new  acquaintance,  since  visiting  is 
expensive  even  when  carried  on  in  the  most  moderate 
way.  Mrs.  Allen  loves  the  country;  and  she  is  fre- 
quently haunted  with  images  of  breezy  hills,  flowery 
valleys,  and  umbrageous  woods ;  but  she  rents  her  little 
lodging  by  the  year  for  the  sake  of  economy,  and  she 
cannot  afford  an  excursion  from  thence ;  so  she  reads 
Our  Village  and  Summer  Time  in  the  Country,  fills  her 
pretty  painted  flower  jars  with  moss  roses  purchased 
from  street  venders,  and  tries  to  forget  that  there  was 
once  a  time  when  she  enjoyed  "  free  Nature's  grace " 
without  restriction.  IVIrs.  Allen  has  another  di-awback 
upon  happiness;  her  health  is  failing;  she  can  only 
walk  to  a  very  short  distance  from  home,  and  carriage 
hire  is  out  of  the  question.  She  has  lately  suffered 
under   a   severe   attack  of  illness;   and  her   landlady 


20  EDUCATED    V/OME><. 

earnestly  persuaded  her  to  have  recourse  to  medical 
assistance.  She  resolutely  refused ;  and  the  landlady 
expatiated  long  and  fluently  to  her  next  "  caller  in"  on 
Mrs.  Allen's  "  unaccountable  dislike  to  doctors."  But 
Mrs.  Allen  has  no  dislike  to  doctors ;  she  only  dislikes 
the  expense  of  them. 

When  I  have  said  that  I  do  not  consider  Mrs.  Allen 
happy,  let  me  not  be  understood  to  infer  that  she  ever 
complains  of  her  lot  in  life.  No ;  on  the  contrary,  she 
often  expresses  her  gratitude  to  Providence  that  she 
has  been  able  by  her  unassisted  efforts  to  accumulate  a 
sufficient  sum  to  place  her  in  independence  for  the  rest 
of  her  days,  giving  her  sufficient  to  satisfy  the  wants  of 
nature  and  allowing  her  abundant  leisure  to  prepare  her 
mind  for  a  future  world. 

Mrs.  Allen's  story  is  very  short  and  very  common- 
place. Highly  educated  and  slenderly  dowered,  she 
became  the  wife  of  a  man  of  reputed  wealth ;  she  en- 
joyed every  luxury  for  several  years,  when  the  sudden 
death  of  her  husband  discovered  that  his  affairs  were  in 
so  involved  a  state  that  nothing  could  be  saved  from 
the  wreck  of  them  for  the  use  of  his  widow. 

Mrs.  Allen  now  deemed  it  advisable  to  avail  herself 
of  her  talents  and  accomplishments  as  a  means  of  sup- 
port, and  became  a  governess.  Perhaps  few  govern- 
esses had  ever  less  to  complain  of  than  she  had ;  her 


EDUCATED    WOMEN.  21 

superior  abilities  insured  her  a  good  salary,  and  she 
was  extremely  fortunate  in  entering  families  who  treat- 
ed her  with  kindness  and  consideration ;  while  her  pu- 
pils, generally  speaking,  were  amiable  and  intelligent 
and  did  credit  to  the  excellent  instructions  which  they 
received  from  her.  Thirty  years  did  Mrs.  Allen  pursue 
this  way  of  life,  regularly  laying  by  as  much  of  her 
yearly  stipend  as  she  could  consistently  save  after  mak- 
ing the  appearance  expected  from  a  well-salaried  gov- 
erness. At  the  conclusion  of  that  period,  when  her 
health  and  spirits  both  gave  symptoms  of  failing,  she 
was  truly  grateful  to  find  that  it  was  in  her  power  to 
purchase  a  small  life  annuity  which,  managed  with  fru- 
gality, would  procure  her  the  means  of  living  without 
future  labor.  Mrs.  Allen  had  not  very  frequently 
changed  her  situations ;  but  of  course  in  thirty  years 
occasional  transits  were  unavoidable;  and  among  her 
pupils  at  different  periods  were  numbered  the  three 
ladies  whom  I  have  described  as  doing  so  much  honor 
to  the  education  bestowed  on  them.  Lady  Corwyn, 
Mrs.  Stafford,  and  Mrs.  Rushton  were  each  under  her 
care  for  some  years.  Now  have  I  come  to  the  moral 
for  which  I  have  been  endeavoring  to  prepare  my 
readers.  Why  has  IMrs.  Allen  so  completely  passed 
from  the  remembrance  of  the  pupils  who  owe  so  much 


22  EDUCATED    WOMEN. 

to  her  ?  Why  do  they  not  feel  that  it  is  equally  a  dw^y 
and  a  pleasure  to  keep  up  frequent  intercourse  with 
her,  to  invite  her  to  their  houses,  and  to  introduce  her 
to  the  husbands  who  have  such  cause  to  be  thankful  to 
her  for  having  trained  up  for  them  such  admirable 
wives  ?  What  would  Lady  Corwyn  have  been  if  left 
to  the  sole  direction  of  a  sickly,  indolent  mother  ?  Mrs. 
Stafford,  as  an  orphan  under  the  care  of  a  stately  guar- 
dian with  a  silly  wife,  would  have  had  still  fewer  ad- 
vantages of  moral  training ;  and  Mrs.  Rushton,  if  her 
worldly,  trifling  aunt  had  been  her  sole  preceptress, 
would  probably  have  never  been  any  thing  but  worldly 
and  trifling  herself.  Were  you  to  talk  to  these  ladies 
on  the  subject  of  their  education,  I  am  persuaded  that 
not  one  of  them  would  deny  that  they  were  under  the 
greatest  obligations  to  Mrs.  Allen ;  were  you  to  tell 
them  that  she  was  suffering  from  poverty,  they  would 
assist  her  readily  and  abundantly ;  were  you  to  apprise 
them  that  she  was  a  candidate  for  admission  into  any 
charitable  institution,  they  would  write  letters,  pay 
morning  visits,  work  for  a  fancy  fair,  or  adopt  any  other 
mode  which  might  be  suggested  to  them  as  being  most 
likely  to  be  beneficial  to  her.  Why,  then,  do  tliey  not 
seek  her  as  a  companion  and  guest  ?  How  many  com- 
forts and  indulgences  might  they  be  the  means  of  be- 


EDUCATED    WOMEN.  23 

stowing  upon  her,  without  causing  any  humiliation  to 
her  independent  spirit !  How  many  happy  hours  might 
she  enjoy  in  the  beautiful  park  and  pleasure  grounds  of 
Lady  Corwyn  !  How  might  Mrs.  Stafford  have  made 
her  the  occasional  sharer  of  her  prosperity,  and  have 
been  rewai'ded  by  finding  in  her  one  of  her  few  firm, 
unshi'inking  friends  in  the  season  of  adversity  !  How 
might  Mrs.  Rushton  delight  to  welcome  to  her  peaceful 
retirement  the  governess  who  implanted  in  her  mind  the 
excellent  principles  which  qualified  her  to  enjoy  and  to 
adorn  it !  I  have  frequently  heard  married  women 
describe  the  pleasure  they  feel  in  renewing  their  ac- 
quaintance with  those  whom  they  have  known  in  early 
girlhood,  because  they  could  retrace  with  them  innu- 
merable little  incidents,  scenes,  and  dialogues  interesting 
to  themselves,  although  dull  and  trivial  to  an  indifferent 
person.  Surely  none  can  be  so  well  qualified  to  share 
in  such  pleasant  reminiscences  as  the  governess,  who 
was  not  only  an  occasional  visitor,  but  the  actual  inmate 
of  the  house  of  her  young  charge  during  the  delightful 
season  of  life's  fresh  spring.  And  yet,  among  the  most 
amiable  of  women,  how  constantly  do  we  see  that  the 
governess  is  suffered  to  pass  into  entire  oblivion  from 
the  time  she  ceases  to  reside  with  them !  Possibly  in 
some  cases  a  few  letters  may  be  exchanged;  but  the 


24  EDUCATED    WOMEN. 

languid  correspondence  soon  comes  to  a  close;  her 
nam<^  is  never  mentioned,  and  her  very  existence  is 
forgotten. 

Is  not  this  wrong,  unfeeling,  ungrateful  ?  Yes  ;  the 
right  word  has  come  forth  at  last  —  I  will  not  gloss  it 
over. 

Ingratitude  is  the  one  fault  of  my  three  fair  friends, 
and  of  many  other  equally  esteemed  members  of  socie- 
ty. It  is  a  harsh  word ;  it  is  a  heavy  accusation ;  there 
are  few,  even  among  the  most  humble  minded,  who 
could  be  induced  to  plead  guilty  to  it.  And  yet  what  is 
the  deifinition  of  ingratitude  ?  Is  it  not  the  want  of  a 
due  sense  of  the  benefits  that  we  have  received  from 
others  ?  And  how  great  are  the  benefits  that  a  pupil 
receives  from  a  thproughly  conscientious  governess,  who 
is  not  content  with  imparting  showy  accomplishments 
nor  even  solid  information  to  her,  but  who  carefully 
guards  her  young  mind  from  evil,  and  instils  into  it  the 
great  truths  of  religion !  Gratitude  should  be  shown 
through  hfe  to  such  a  preceptress ;  and  the  expression 
of  it  ought  to  be  considered  as  an  enjoyment  and  a  priv- 
ilege. Her  married  pupils,  in  particular,  should  delight 
to  welcome  her  to  their  domestic  fireside,  to  make  her 
intimately  acquainted  with  the  failings  and  the  excel- 
lences of  their  children,  and    to   listen  with  pleasure 


EDUCATED    WOMEN.  25 

while  she  recounts  to  those  children  anecdotes  of  the 
youthful  days  of  their  dear  mother.  Is  there  any  rea- 
son why  such  an  intercourse  should  not  be  of  frequent 
occurrence,  with  mutual  comfort  and  advantage  to  each 
party  ?  No ;  it  is  not  even  attempted  to  give  any  rea- 
son why  it  should  not  be  so.  Such  an  intimacy  is  never 
sought  for  because  it  is  never  thought  of;  and  I  am 
inclined  to  believe  that  want  of  thought  more  than  want 
of  real  principle  and  kindness  is  the  source  of  the  error 
that  I  deplore.  But  the  governess  has  deep  feelings, 
warm  sympathies,  strong  affections ;  the  nature  of  her 
employment  in  life  has  alienated  her  from  the  society 
of  her  own  family ;  she  has  given  all  her  earnest  inter- 
est to  strangers ;  she  has  sat  with  them  by  the  winter 
hearth,  joined  them  in  the  summer  walk,  heard  their 
troubles,  shared  their  joys,  partaken  their  prayers.  She 
has  won  their  friendly  confidence ;  is  it  to  be  withdrawn 
from  her  the  moment  she  quits  them  ?  She  has  quali- 
fied them  to  bless  and  be  blessed  in  their  progress 
through  life ;  is  she  to  be  deprived  of  the  gratification 
of  seeing  how  it  has  pleased  Providence  to  prosper  the 
good  seed  which  she  has  sown?  No  —  no;  let  her 
lonely  home  be  gladdened,  let  her  sinking  heart  be 
cheered,  by  the  renewal  of  ties  so  long  dissevered ;  let 
her  hear  the  sound  of  well-known  voices,  and  gaze  on 
3 


26  EDUCATED   WOMEN. 

the  smile  of  familiar  faces;  let  the  husbands  of  her 
pupils  delight  to  honor  her,  and  their  young  children 
welcome  her  with  caresses  ;  and  then,  and  not  till  then, 
shall  I  say  that  the  blot  on  our  national  character  is 
removed,  and  that  England  has  reason  to  be  proud  of 
her  "  educated  women." 


FAITH'S  VIGIL. 


BY    CHARLES    H.    HITCHINOS. 


It  is  said  that  the  spirits  who  haunt  lakes  and  streams  very  tre* 
quently  entice  children  away  with  them,  and  bring  them  back,  after 
a  lapse  of  years,  not  as  they  were  when  stolen,  but  always  more 
beautiful  and  with  rich  and  valuable  gifts.  The  following  song  was 
suggested  by  this  legend. 

0  MOTHER,  ask  me  now  no  more 
Why  night  by  night  I  stray 

To  where  the  darkling  waters  bore 
My  brother  dear  away. 

1  know  that,  free  from  guilt  and  pain. 

He  sleeps  beneath  the  river ; 
But  we  shall  see  him  once  again 
More  beautiful  than  ever. 

I  know  the  spirits  pure  and  mild 
That  peer  with  angel  faces 

(27) 


28  faith's  vigil. 

To  lure  away  the  little  child 
To  holier,  happier  places ; 

And  these  my  brother  dear  have  ta'en 
Adown  the  darkling  river ; 

But  we  shall  see  him  once  again 
More  beautiful  than  ever. 

"We  shall  not  see  him,  as  of  old, 

A  weakling  human  creature. 
But  gifted  with  a  crown  of  gold  — 

A  high,  angelic  nature. 
Then  say  not  that  my  watch  is  vain 

Beside  the  darkling  river ; 
For  we  shall  see  him  yet  agaia 

More  beautiful  than  ever. 


THE  MANGLING  ROOM. 


A  8CKKX  OUT  OF  TUB  KTEBT-OAT  LIFX  OF  A  DAITISU  HOUSEHOLD. 


One  day,  when  I  was  about  ten  years  old,  having 
found  my  uncle's  powder  horn,  I  filled  my  pocket  hand- 
kerchief with  a  quantity  of  gunpowder,  with  which,  as 
soon  as  it  grew  dusk,  I  stole  down  to  the  shore,  that  I 
might  amuse  myself  wuth  what  the  children  call  water- 
spouts. I  was  so  absorbed  with  the  pleasure  I  was 
anticipating  that,  having  set  up  my  first  waterspout,  I 
forgot  to  place  my  powder  in  safety ;  it  lay,  therefore, 
in  my  left  trousers*  pocket  whilst  I  swung  round  the 
little  black  instrument  which  sputtered  forth  glittering 
yellowish-red  sparks.  Just  when,  with  a  shriek  of  de- 
light, I  was  about  to  hurl  it  up  in  the  air,  I  was  startled 
by  a  dull  report ;  and  then  a  hot,  burning  current  of  air 
rushed  past  my  face,  and  I  was  thrown  to  the  ground. 
The  first  thing  which  I  saw  when  I  rose  up  was  my 
8  *  (29) 


30  THE    MANGLING    ROOM. 

pocket  handkerchief  still  burning  in  a  tall  tree.  I 
had,  however,  no  time  to  form  any  plans  for  recov- 
ering it,  because  a  violent  pain  in  my  left  leg  made 
me  look  down  to  discover  the  cause,  wlien  to  my 
unspeakable  horror  I  perceived  that  my  trousers  were 
burning. 

"  "What  will  my  aunt  say  ?  And  perhaps  she  will  tell 
my  uncle.  And  the  powder !  and  the  powder  horn  ! " 
"While  I  thus  thought  I  began  to  cry  with  terror  and 
pain,  for  the  lire  in  the  woollen  cloth  became  still 
stronger.  At  that  moment  I  felt  myself  seized  by  the 
neck,  and  the  next  over  head  in  water. 

It  was  the  head  man  in  my  uncle's  brandy  distillery 
who  had  thus  laid  hands  on  me ;  for  by  chance,  being 
near  me,  he  had  seen  what  had  happened.  "When  he 
had  taken  me  out  of  the  water  and  convinced  himself 
that  I  had  not  suffered  any  injury,  he  said,  — 

"  But,  Lodwig,  what  sort  of  a  freak  was  that  ?  " 

I  answered,  crying  all  the  time,  that  I  did  not  know 
what  it  was ;  that  there  had  come  something  just  hke 
fire  and  had  burned  me. 

"  Don't  tell  me  any  stories,  Lodwig,"  said  the  man ; 
"  I  saw  as  plain  as  could  be  that  you  were  playing  with 
waterspouts." 

"  Dear  Ole,"  besought  I,  «  don't  tell  my  aunt." 

"  No,"  replied  Ole,  "  I  won't  get  you  into  trouble." 


THE    MANGLING    EOOil.  31 

"But  what  am  I  to  tell  my  aunt?"  exclaimed  I, 
beginning  to  cry  again  more  than  ever. 

Ole  bethought  himself  a  little  while,  and  then  said, 
'*  You  can  say  that  you  tumbled  into  the  water  aind  that 
I  picked  you  out" 

"  But,  Ole,  I  durst  not  tumble  into  the  water." 

He  bethought  himself  again.  "  Well,  then,  you  can 
say  that  I  pushed  you  hito  the  w  ater." 

"Yes;  but,  Ole,"  said  I,  "they  will  be  cross  with 
you." 

"  Never  mmd  that,"  said  Ole ;  "  I'll  bear  all  that  if 
you  will  only  promise  me  never  to  play  with  powder 
again." 

This  conduct  of  Ole's  appeared  to  me  the  most  disin- 
terested which  one  human  being  could  show  to  another ; 
and  from  this  time  forth  I  began  to  think  of  all  the  good 
that  I  could  do  to  him.  I  was  continually  with  him 
in  the  distillery ;  I  ran  errands  for  him,  drew  his  ale 
when  he  was  thirsty,  and  on  Sundays  always  gave  him 
the  piece  of  cake  which  was  given  to  me  after  dinner. 
Ole  was  not  very  polite,  and  did  not  even  say  that  it 
was  almost  a  shame  to  eat  my  cake.  On  the  contrary, 
he  ate  it  up  to  the  last  crum,  and  wiped  his  mouth 
aftei-wards  with  the  back  of  his  hand  with  an  expression 
\hat  seemed  to  say  he  could  eat  as  much  more ;  after 
which  he   asked,  "  But  it  was  your   own   cake,  Lod- 


82  THE    MANGLING    ROOM. 

wig  —  was  it?  You  have  not  stolen  it  from  your 
aunt  ?  " 

On  one  occasion,  however,  I  was  able  to  give  him  a 
still  more  substantial  proof  of  my  devotion.  Happening 
one  day  to  go  into  the  distillery,  I  saw  him  and  another 
fellow  lying  struggling  together  under  a  bench.  Ole 
was  very  strong ;  but  his  antagonist,  having  fallen  upon 
him  from  behind,  now  held  him  down  by  the  throat,  his 
body  lying  uppermost.  When  I  beheld  Ole  lying  thus 
black  in  the  face  I  was  almost  out  of  my  senses,  and, 
running  to  them,  I  tpok  a  wooden  shoe  from  one  of  the 
four  struggling  feet,  and  with  its  iron-bound  heel  struck 
his  assailant  so  violently  on  the  head  that  he  instantly 
let  go  Ole  and  started  up  to  fall  upon  me  ;  but  the  next 
moment  Ole  was  upon  his  feet  again  and  soon  put  him 
to  flight. 

From  this  time  forth  our  friendship  was  mutual,  and  I 
became  as  indispensable  to  him  as  he  to  me.  Wlien  he 
was  not  very  busy  in  the  distillery  he  cut  out  cards  for 
me,  or  cast  leaden  bullets  for  my  crossbow  down  in  the 
cellar-like  place  into  which  the  boiler  fires  opened,  or 
else  played  at  "  touchwood "  with  me  round  the  great 
mash  tubs.  On  Sunday  afternoons  he  took  me  with 
him  the  only  walk  he  ever  indulged  in  —  down  to  the 
enclosed  piece  of  land  on  the  shore.  When  he  had  sat 
here  for  some  time  perfectly  still  he  returned  to  the 


THE    MANGLING    ROOM.  t83 

house  and  went  up  to  his  own  chamber,  where  he  dressed 
himself  in  his  Sunday's  best ;  and  then  we  two  went  and 
stood  at  the  court-yard  gate.  There  we  stood  —  he 
with  his  hat  on,  and  in  his  red  waistcoat  buttoned  with 
small  silver  buttons  up  to  his  throat,  dark-blue  coat,  and 
three  or  four  watches  in  his  pockets,  each  with  its  watch 
chain  hanging  conspicuously  out,  and  with  one  silver- 
mounted  meerschaum  pipe  sticking  out  from  the  hind 
pocket  of  his  coat  and  another  in  his  hand ;  for  the  head 
distiller  at  my  uncle's  had  high  wages  and  many  perqui- 
sites. My  uncle  used  to  say  that  his  head  man  earned 
more  than  he  did  himself. 

When  we  had  thus  stood  for  half  an  hour  or  so,  and 
spoken  to  the  young  girls  of  the  town  who  went  by,  and 
all  of  whom  had  a  kind  look  for  the  handsome  Ole,  he 
returned  to  his  chamber  and  again  put  on  his  every-day 
clothes ;  after  which  he  went  to  look  after  his  distilling, 
unless  there  was  mangling  to  be  done  this  afternoon,  in 
which  case  he  betook  himself  from  the  gate  to  the  man- 
gling room  in  all  his  bravery. 

This  mangling  room  was  a  large  square  apartment 
which  lay  behind  the  dairy.  Tlie  floor  was  of  clay,  and 
the  furniture  consisted  alone  of  the  mangle  and  a  large 
square  table.  Two  small  holes  served  for  windows ; 
these  the  servant  maids  stopped  up  in  winter  with  rags, 
and  therefore  on  the  afternoons  of  high  days  and  holi- 


i84  THE   MANGLING   ROOII. 

days  lighted  the  great  iron  lamp,  with  its  two  wicks, 
which  hung  directly  over  the  mangle. 

I  had  always  had  a  sort  of  horror  of  this  room  — 
partly  because  it  was  so  dark  and  lay  at  the  end  of  a 
long,  dark  passage,  and  partly  because  I  had  once  heard 
a  story  about  it  which  did  not  greatly  redound  to  its 
credit.  I  was  sitting  one  winter  afternoon  in  a  corner 
of  the  drinking  room,  —  for  my  uncle  also  dealt  in  liquors 
by  retail,  —  and  was  amusing  myself  with  an  old  pack 
of  cards.  It  was  early  in  the  afternoon  ;  and  the  room 
was  empty  with  the  exception  of  old  Niels  Olsen,  who 
sat  asleep  beside  the  stove,  when  all  at  once  in  rushed 
IMaren,  the  dairy  maid,  and  threw  herself  upon  a  bench. 
The  noise  woke  Niels  Olsen,  who  exclaimed,  — 

"  What  is  amiss  with  you,  Maren  ?  " 

"  0, 1  am  just  ready  to  swoon,"  replied  Maren. 

Niels  raised  himself  from  his  bowed  position,  looked 
compassionately  at  her,  and  said, "  Drink  a  drop,  Ma- 
ren." 

"  You  drunken  old  swine,"  said  Maren,  "  would  you 
have  me  drink  brandy  as  well  as  you  ?  O  Lord  Jesus 
my  Savior ! " 

"  I  think  she's  out  of  her  mind,"  said  Niels  to  himself, 
and  then  asked  once  more,  "  What  is  amiss  with  you, 
Maren?" 

"  0  Lord  Jesus  ! "  again  cried  Maren ;  "  God  grant 


THE    MAXGLIXG    ROOM.  85 

that  I  may  never  bear  the  like  again;  Niels  Olsen,  just 
now  when  I  was  coming  out  of  the  dairy,  w^^t  %hould  I 
hear  but  mangling  in  the  mangling  rooir  ' " 

"  Nay,  then,  I  know  for  sure said  Niels  Olsen 

with  suppressed  voice  and  folded  hands. 

"  What  do  you  know  ?  "  screamed  Maren,  and  became 
as  white  as  chalk. 

"  Is  there  any  body  ill  in  the  house  ?  "  asked  Niels 
Olsen. 

"  Ay,  little  Kirstine  lies  ill,"  said  Maren,  her  eyes 
expanding  and  her  whole  appearance  as  if  her  blood 
was  turning  to  ice. 

"  O,  then,  you'll  see  in  three  days." 

"What  shall  we  see,  Niels  Olsen?"  asked  Maren, 
coming  close  to  him  as  if  she  feared  to  stand  alone. 

"  Did  not  I  live  here  in  sei-vice  with  Birgitta  ?  "  smd 
Niels. 

"  And  who  was  Birgitta,  Niels  Olsen  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  that  was  before  your  time,  Maren.  Birgitta 
was  the  first  dairy  maid  that  the  master  had  after  he 
was  married." 

«  Well,  and  what  about  her,  Niels  ?  " 

"Yes,  she  and  I  were  to  mangle  together  by  our- 
selves ;  for  there  were  not  so  many  of  us  then  as  there 
are  of  you  now.  The  last  time  I  had  mangled  with  her 
she  was  poorly ;  and  she  said  to  me,  '  I  think  this  will 


3b  THE   MANGLING   ROOM. 

be  tlie  last  time  that  we  shall  mangle  together,  Niels 
Olsen.'  *  You  musn't  say  so,  Birgitta,'  said  I ;  *  God 
willing,  we'll  mangle  many  a  good  piece  of  cloth  together 
yet.'  The  next  Sunday,  as  I  was  standing  in  the  sta- 
ble and  was  filling  the  rack  for  the  big  bull  that  we  had 
then,  and  which  afterwards  went  mad  and  tossed  butcher 
Mogensen,  I  heard  Birgitta  calling  to  me  that  I  must 
come  in  and  mangle.  I  thought  nothing  but  that  it  was 
all  right,  and  went  up  into  the  mangling  room;  and 
when  I  opened  the  door,  Maren,  there  I  saw  Birgitta  as 
plain  as  ever  I  saw  her  in  my  life  standing  and  turning 
the  mangle  all  by  herself;  but  there  were  no  clothes  in 
the  mangle.  *  In  Jesus'  name ! '  said  I,  shut  the  door 
after  me,  and  went  back  into  the  stable.  And  on 
Wednesday  night  Birgitta  died." 
%  "  God  be  merciful  to  us  ! "  cried  Maren,  and  became 
more  faint  than  ever. 

Niels  Olsen  filled  a  half  measure  with  brandy,  drank 
some  of  it  himself,  and  threw  the  rest  into  Maren's  face ; 
on  which  she  recovered,  and  they  then  promised  each 
other  not  to  say  a  word  about  what  had  happened  to 
any  of  the  people  of  the  house,  lest  it  should  come  to 
the  ears  of  little  Kirstine.  After  this  Maren  went  back 
into  the  dairy. 

It  is  only  necessary  now  to  teU  that  little  Kirstine  did 
not,  after  all,  die  at  that  time ;  nevertheless,  I  retained 


THE   MANGLING   ROOM.  37 

all  my  terror  of  the  mangling  room.  I  entered  for  the 
first  time  with  01c ;  for  where  should  I  have  been  afraid 
of  going  when  Ole  was  with  me  ? 

Although  I  did  not  at  that  time  understand  all  that  I 
saw  going  forward  in  the  mangling  room,  yet  it  has  re- 
mained as  clearly  imprinted  on  my  memory  as  if  it  had 
occurred  but  yesterday.  The  lamp  with  its  two  -wicks 
was  lighted,  and  threw  its  strong  reddish  light  upon  the 
two  oldest  herdsmen  who  turned  the  mangle  —  this 
having  been  from  time  immemorial  a  part  of  the  duty 
attached  to  the  stable.  In  a  less  strong  light  stood  all 
the  men  servants  of  the  house  side  by  side  along  one 
wall ;  and  exactly  opposite  to  them,  against  the  opposite 
wall,  stood  the  maid  servants  of  the  family  as  well  as 
other  young  women  from  the  neighborhood.  The  young 
men  conversed  at  broken  intervals  among  themselves  ; 
but  their  conversation  had  reference  to  the  girls,  who 
replied  to  it  by  talking  to  each  other.  Without  the  two 
opposite  rows  looking  at  each  other,  yet  they  mutually 
communicated  in  this  way  all  the  news,  flung  repartees 
backwards  and  forwards,  and  talked  till  they  were  tired. 

As  soon  as  the  "family's  linen"  was  mangled  the 
two  old  herdsmen  walked  oif  to  the  drinking  room,  as 
if  they  knew  that  they  were  unnecessary  for  the  scene 
which  followed.  Then  stepped  forward  one  young  wo- 
man after  another  to  the  table,  placed  the  linen  ready 
4 


88  THE   MANGLING   ROOM. 

on  the  roller,  and  laid  it  under  the  mangle ;  on  which 
one  of  th.e  young  men  stepped  forward  from  their  side 
and  helped  her  to  turn  the  mangle.  When  this  was 
done  sufficiently,  the  girl  gave  the  young  man  her  hand 
and  said,  "  Thanks,  so  and  so,"  mentioning  his  name. 
Sometimes  it  would  happen  that  two  or  more  young 
fellows  would  rush  forward  at  once  to  help  some  one 
girl;  and  then  followed  a  short  combat,  until  one  of 
them  succeeded  in  possessing  himself  of  the  mangle, 
when  all  quietly  retired  and  the  work  proceeded  as  be- 
fore. Sometimes,  also,  a  young  fellow  who  wished  to 
go  forward  was  withheld  from  doing  so  amid  the  laugh- 
ter of  the  whole  row.  The  more  earnestly  he  tried  to 
get  away  the  louder  grew  the  laughter ;  nor  would  they 
release  him  till  he  had  promised  to  give  them  some  bran- 
dy. All  this  appeared  so  very  amusing  to  me  that  I 
asked  Ole  whether  he  also  would  not  mangle  ;  to  which 
he  replied,  "  Hush,  Lodwig !  there  is  something  about 
this  which  you  don't  understand." 

When  all  the  girls  had  finished,  one  of  them  went  out 
and  called  to  Fransine,  my  aunt's  parlor  maid.  Fran- 
sine  was  a  peasant  girl,  who  had  entered  my  aunt's 
service  when  she  was  a  child,  and  thereby  had  acquired 
the  appearance  of  a  city  maiden ;  her  face  was  not  so 
red  as  those  of  other  girls ;  neither  did  she  wear  wooden 
shoes  nor  yet  heavily -plaided  petticoats;   nevertheless 


THE    MANGLING   ROOM.  39 

she  was  much  liked  by  the  house  servants  because  she 
was  not  proud,  by  which  it  might  be  inferred  that  her 
predecessor  had  been  so. 

Fransine  came  hastily  in  with  a  small  bundle  of 
clothes,  saluted  the  company  with  a  "  Good  evening  to 
all  in  the  room,"  arranged  the  Hnen  round  the  roller, 
then  placed  it  in  the  mangle,  and  seemed  as  if  she  were 
about  to  mangle  by  herself.  On  this  Ole  left  his  place 
in  the  ranks,  without  any  one  attempting  to  inteiTupt 
him,  placed  himself  at  the  mangle,  and  turned  it  for 
Fransine.  Fransine  never  once  looked  up  all  the  time 
he  was  mangling ;  but  when  he  had  finished  she  gave 
him  her  hand,  looked  kindly  at  him,  and  said,  "  Thanks, 
Ole." 

At  that  moment  such  an  expression  of  joy  passed 
over  Ole's  face  that  I  also  felt  involuntarily  glad  and 
exclaimed,  "  I,  too,  will  mangle." 

Maria,  the  kitchen  maid,  said,  "  In  that  case  we  must 
send  a  message  after  little  Emilie ;  but  you  two  are  too 
young  for  that  yet." 

About  this  Emilie  there  is,  however,  a  long  story ; 
but  I  will  not  tell  it  now. 

It  was  towards  the  end  of  the  midsummer  holidays 
that  this  scene  took  place  in  the  mangling  room ;  and 
as  I  inmiediately  afterwards  went  to  Copenhagen  to 
school,  I  was  not  present  at  any  others  for  some  time. 


iO  THE   MANGLING   ROOM. 

When  I  returned  at  Christmas  a  great  delight  await- 
ed me.  My  cousin  Anton  was  at  my  uncle's  house  on 
a  visit.  I  now  had  my  uncle,  my  aunt,  Ole,  the  whole 
house,  and,  over  and  above  all,  cousin  Anton.  I  did 
not  at  all  know  how  I  should  divide  myself  among  so 
many.    I  had  almost  more  to  love  than  I  could  manage. 

Anton  Falsen  was  the  one  whom  I  most  desired  to 
resemble  when  I  became  a  man.  He  was,  properly 
speaking,  in  trade  —  that  is  to  say,  he  managed  his 
father's  business ;  and  I  was  to  be  a  student ;  but  he 
had  no  resemblance  whatever  to  any  other  merchant's 
clerk  or  shopkeeper's  assistant.  He  understood  every 
thing;  he  could  sing,  dance,  play  comedy,  imitate  peo- 
ple's way  of  talking  and  looking ;  and,  let  any  body  be 
as  melancholy  as  they  might,  they  were  sure  to  laugh 
when  he  begun ;  then  he  had  also  a  strange,  indescriba- 
ble smile  which  produced  an  irresistible  effect  upon  all. 
I  once  heard  his  father  say,  when  speaking  of  him, 
"  Anton  is  a  wildcat  and  has  cost  me  a  deal  of  money ; 
but,  for  all  that,  he  will  get  through  the  world  —  for  he 
is  a  merry  fellow  and  is  Hked  by  every  body,  especially 
by  the  ladies." 

And  I  can  very  well  remember  that  it  was  from  this 
very  assertion  of  his  father's  that  I  wished  so  much  to 
be  like  Anton  when  I  became  a  man. ' 

In  the  beginning  I  spent  all  my  time  with  Anton  and 


THE    MANGLING    ROOM.  41 

quite  forsook  Ole  and  the  distillery ;  after  a  wliile,  how 
ever,  my  conscience  smote  me  for  so  doing ;  and,  leaving 
my  cousin,  I  once  more  visited  Ole.  I  could  not  help 
fancying  that  he  was  less  gentle  and  kind  than  former- 
ly ;  and,  as  I  supposed  that  it  might  be  in  consequence 
of  my  having  deserted  him,  I  now  redoubled  my  atten- 
tion to  him;  but  this  produced  no  effect  whatever  on 
Ole.  Now  and  then  he  would  show  somewhat  of  his 
former  kindness ;  but  the  next  moment  he  again  became 
gloomy  and  said  that  I  must  go  away  from  him.  One 
day,  when  I  stood  beside  him  on  the  best  of  terms  as  I 
supposed,  he  pushed  me  away  so  that  I  fell,  while  he 
said,  "  Get  away !  You  look  just  the  image  of  your 
cousin." 

When  I,  however,  began  to  cry,  he  took  me  in  his 
arms,  caressed  me,  asked  my  forgiveness,  and  promised 
me  every  thing  I  wished  for  if  I  only  would  be  quiet 
and  not  tell  any  body  in  the  house  any  thing  about  it. 

When  on  Sunday  I  took  to  him,  according  to  old  cus- 
tom, my  piece  of  after-dinner  cake,  I  found  him  sitting 
down  by  the  boiler  fires  looking  very  melancholy. 

*'  No,  Lodwig,"  said  he,  when  I  offered  it  to  him ;  "  I 
shall  not  have  it ;  give  it  rather  to  your  cousin." 

"  Why  should  I  give  it  to  him ? "  asked  I ;  "he  has 
had  a  piece  as  well  as  me." 

"  Give  it  to  him,"  said  Ole ;  "  let  him  have  it  as  well," 
4* 


42  THE    MANGLING    ROOM. 

Ole's  voice  was  so  very  sorrowful  that  I  was  ready- 
to  cry. 

"  Are  you  angry  with  me  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  With  you,  poor  lad  ?  "  said  Ole,  and  began  to  mend 
the  fire  vigorously  under  the  boiler. 

There  was  going  to  be  a  mangling  that  same  after- 
noon ;  and  I  went  wath  Ole  into  the  room.  We  did  not 
go  until  it  was  almost  over  ;  and  when  the  message  was 
sent  to  bid  Fransine  come,  she  was  a  long  time  before 
she  made  her  appearance ;  and  when  she  came  she  said 
"  Good  afternoon  to  all  here "  in  a  different  tone  to 
what  she  had  done  before. 

Every  body  was  quite  silent  when  she  came  in ;  and 
all  the  time  that  she  was  placing  the  clothes  within  the 
linen  of  the  roller  the  whole  place  was  so  still  that  you 
might  almost  hear  the  people  breathing.  Wlien  she 
had  got  all  ready  and  stood  by  the  mangle  there  was  a 
pause  of  a  minute  or  two  before  any  one  offered  to  help 
her.  At  length  Ole  stepped  forward  from  the  ranks  as 
on  the  former  occasion.  He  seized  the  handle,  and  at 
the  first  turn  that  he  gave  the  huge  mangle  rocked  to 
and  fro  and  was  shaken  out  of  its  place ;  and  Fransine, 
throwing  down  the  mangle  stick,  rushed  out  of  the 
"oom. 

Ole  and  several  other  of  the  men  went  round  into 
the  public  drinking  room,  ordered  each  a  measure  of 


THE    MANGLING    ROOM.  43 

brandy,  and  were  more  than  usually  merry.  After  a 
short  time,  however,  Ole  grew  very  quiet,  and,  rising 
up,  stood  leaning  against  the  inner  door  of  the  room. 

While  he  was  thus  standing  my  cousin  Anton  came 
in  from  the  street.  He  staid  a  moment  at  the  threshold 
of  the  outer  door  to  knock  the  snow  from  his  shoes,  and 
then  was  about  to  pass  through  the  room  on  his  way  to 
the  parlor,  against  the  door  of  which  Ole  was  leaning. 
He  might  very  well  have  gone  in  without  disturbing 
Ole  if  he  had  chosen ;  but  instead  of  that  he  cast  an 
angry  glance  at  him  and  bade  him  go  out  of  the  way. 

Ole  stood  immovable  as  if  he  had  not  heard  him 
speak,  whilst  the  other  young  fellows  drew  together  in  a 
group  by  the  counter. 

"  Did  you  not  hear  that  I  told  you  to  stand  out  of  the 
way  ?  "  cried  my  cousin. 

Ole  still  leaned  against  the  doorpost  as  before  and 
replied,  "  There  has  hitherto  been,  just  as  there  is  to- 
night, room  enough  for  two  people  at  master's  door." 

One  of  the  young  men  tittered ;  the  rest  drew  closer 
together. 

"  Out  of  the  way,  fellow,"  shouted  my  cousin,  growing 
angry,  "  or  else  I'll  help  you." 

"  You  had  better  help  yourself,'*  replied  Ole. 

My  cousin  was  almost  beside  himself. 

"You  rascal,"  said  he,  "are  you  making  game  of 


44  THE    MANGLING    ROOM. 

me  ? "    And  with  this  he  seized  Ole  by  the  breast  of 
his  coat. 

But  Ole  was  as  if  planted  in  the  earth  ;  and  he  mere* 
ly  said,  "  Take  your  hands  off.'* 

I  knew  Ole  well ;  and  the  tone  in  which  he  spoke 
these  few  words  made  me  tremble. 

"  Take  your  hands  off ! "  said  Ole  once  more. 
.  "  You  rascal,  I'll  teach  you  manners,"  cried  my  cousin, 
and  struck  him  in  the  face.  But  at  the  very  moment 
when  I  heard  the  blow  I  saw  my  cousin  fly  the  length 
of  the  room  and  strike  against  the  counter ;  here  he 
stood  for  half  a  moment,  gasped  for  breath,  and  then 
sank  to  his  knees,  the  blood  covering  his  face. 

All  the  spectators  stood  as  if  petrified. 

Ole  stood  staring  for  a  moment  and  then  said,  "  Now 
I  also  have  done  some  mischief ;"  and  then,  bursting 
open  the  sitting-room  door,  stalked  through  it  with  long 
strides  into  the  kitchen;  and  I,  crying  with  all  my 
might,  ran  after  him. 

In  the  kitchen  stood  Fransine.  Ole  with  his  left  hand 
seized  her  by  the  arm ;  and  she,  terrified,  sank  upon  her 
knees  before  him,  whilst,  with  his  right  outstretched,  he- 
seemed  as  if  grasping  after  some  deadly  weapon.  Fran- 
sine  screamed ;  and  I,  scarce  knowing  what  I  did,  seized 
upon  his  outstretched  arm  and  screamed  too.  The  maid 
servants  came  rushing  in  from  the  maid  servants'  room ; 


!fHE   MANGLING   KOOM.  4«> 

my  aunt  came  out  of  her  bed  chamber ;  and  my  uncle, 
who  heard  the  noise  in  the  distant  counting  house,  hur- 
ried in  also.  My  cousin  came  reeUng  in,  with  a  bloody 
pocket  handkerchief  held  to  his  face  and  otherwise 
looking  very  white.  At  sight  of  my  uncle  and  aunt  Ole 
let  go  Fransine,  and  remained  standing  immovable  with 
downcast  head.  Fransine  sat  down  on  the  chopping 
block,  and,  putting  her  apron  before  her  face,  began  to 
cry. 

"  What  is  amiss  here  ? "  asked  my  uncle,  looking 
round  him.  "  How  came  you  to  be  bleeding  ?  "  asked 
he  of  Anton.  ^ 

"It  is  your  brandy  distiller  who  has  struck  me," 
said  he. 

"And  he  has  rushed  through  the  parlor  into  the 
kitchen,  and  knocked  down  one  of  my  maid  servants," 
said  my  aunt. 

"  Ole,  what  is  the  meaning  of  all  this  ?  "  asked  my 
uncle ;  "  you  have  hitherto  been  a  well-conducted  fellow. 
Have  you  had  any  cause  of  offence  from  any  one? 
What  is  amiss,  Ole  ?  " 

Ole  seized  my  uncle's  hand  without  looking  at  him, 
kissed  it,  and  said,  "  God  bless  you,  master  !  but  I  must 
leave  you." 

"What,  will  you  leave  before  your  time  is  up, 
Ole?" 


4^  THE   MANGLING   ROOM. 

"  Yes,  let  him  go,"  cried  my  aunt,  who  was  very  irri- 
table ;  "  we  are  not  going  to  ask  him  to  stay,  I  should 
think." 

"  Master,  I'll  willingly  forfeit  a  quarter's  wages,"  said 
Ole. 

"  What !  a  quarter's  wages  ?  Do  you  think  that  I 
am  troubling  myself  about  your  wages  ?     You  can  set 

off  for  what  I  care Heaven  forgive  me,  I  was 

nearly  swearing !  Only  let  me  have  peace  in  my  own 
house." 

With  these  words  my  uncle  turned  round  to  go,  evi- 

^ipdently  greatly  disturbed,  and  in  passing  Anton  he  said 

to  him  in  a  low  voice,  "  It  is  all  owing  to  you,  you  bad 

fellow.     It  is  you  and  nobody  else  who  has  made  all 

this  mischief." 

Anton  followed  my  uncle  out  of  the  kitchen,  and  said 
something  to  him  which  I  did  not  hear. 

"  Pack  up  your  things  and  be  off,"  said  my  aunt  to 
Ole ;  "  and,  Fransine,  do  you  come  with  me." 

Before  Ole  went  into  the  men  servants'  room  they 
already  knew  what  had  occurred.  They  were  all  talk- 
ing together  in  a  loud  voice  ;  but  as  soon  as  he  entered 
they  fell  into  a  deep  silence.  After  a  pause  one  of 
them  said, "  Where  will  you  have  your  things  taken  to, 
Ole?" 

Ole  named  the  place. 


THE    MANGLINQ    ROOM^  47 

The  one  who  had  spoken  continued,  "  You  need  not 
be  at  the  trouble  of  packing  them,  Ole  ;  we  fellows  will 
look  after  that  for  you  ;  and  you  need  not  fear  that  you 
should  miss  a  single  thing." 

"  I  am  sure  I  shall  not,"  said  Ole ;  "  and  I  think," 
added  he,  "  that  you  will  all  of  you  say  for  me  that  1 
am  not  a  bad  one  to  live  in  service  with." 

"  That  we  can,"  said  the  spokesman  of  the  party. 

"  Well,  then,  I  will  bid  you  all  farewell,"  said  Ole ; 
"  and  thanks  for  this  time." 

"  Nay,  but  we  shall  go  with  you  to  the  road,"  said 
the  spokesman.     "  But  now  I  must  call  the  girls." 

All  the  women  servants  with  the  exception  of  Fran- 
sine  came  out  and  took  leave  of  Ole  —  all  seeming  very 
sorrowful  about  it. 

On  this  Ole  passed  through  the  door,  the  men  accom- 
panying him  in  a  close  crowd  across  the  court  yard  to 
the  great  gate,  where  he  so  often  had  stood  in  his  Sun- 
day finery.  Here  they  remained  standing  and  looking 
after  him. 

"  Shall  we  not  give  him  an  hurrah  ? "  said  the  one 
who  had  spoken  before.  "  A  happy  journey  to  you, 
Ole  Hanson!" 

Ole  looked  back  from  the  street  and  nodded  to  them. 
All  his  fellow-servants,  lifted  their  red  caps  from  their 


■* 


48  THE   MANGLING   ROOM. 

heads  and  set  up  a  loud  hurrah.  The  next  moment  Ole 
was  out  of  sight ;  and  they  all  returned  to  their  several 
employments. 

But  from  that  time  forth  there  was  no  one  who  would 
mangle  with  Fransine. 


* 


THE   WISH. 

O  THAT  I  were  a  little  flower 

With  dewdrops  filled  and  fragrance  sweet, 
With  thee  to  pass  but  one  short  hour 

And  then  to  kiss  thy  sylphlike  feet ;         , 
To  bloom  beneath  thy  smile  ;  to  be 
Caressed,  admired,  and  loved  by  thee  I 

O  that  I  were  a  crystal  stream 

That  murmurs  by  some  mountain's  side  I 
Thy  form  should,  as  in  some  sweet  dream, 

Upon  the  silver  waters  glide  ; 
And  mirrored  on  my  breast  would  be 
The  image  then,  dear  maid,  of  thee. 

O  that  I  were  the  bird  of  night 

That  sings  as  sweet  as  'twere  midday. 

Close  by  thy  lattice  to  alight 

And  sing  the  shades  of  night  away  ; 

5  (49) 


60  THE    WISH. 

To  fill  with  liquid  notes  tlie  air, 

As  though  heaven's  echoes  lingered  there ! 

O  that  I  were  some  forest  tree, 

That,  standing  in  sequestered  shade, 

Might  form  a  summer  bower  for  thee 
To  sit  beneath  my  ample  shade  ! 

The  whispering  breeze  should  bid  thee,  sweet, 

Glad  welcome  to  my  lone  retreat. 

O  that  I  were  some  seraph  bright 

To  guard  and  cheer  thee  on  thy  way ; 

To  hover  round  thee,  love,  by  night, 
And  sweetly  smile  on  thee  by  day ; 

To  gladden  thee  when  bowed  with  care. 

And  on  my  wings  a  blessing  bear ! 

By  Death's  cold  hand  when  snatched  away 
To  sleep  beneath  the  dreary  tomb,  — 

Wlien  Death's  sad  messenger,  Decay, 

Had  robbed  thee  of  thy  youthful  bloom,  — 

Might  then  the  bliss  to  me  be  given 

To  waft  thy  sainted  soul  to  heaven  I 


FOREST   OF  ARDEN. 

Duke,  Amiens,  and  Lords. 

1  Lord.     The  melanclioly  Jaques  grieves  at  that ; 
And,  in  that  kind,  swears  you  do  more  usurp 
Than  doth  your  brother  that  hath  banished  you. 
To-day  my  lord  of  Amiens  and  myself 
Did  steal  behind  him,  as  he  lay  along 
Under  an  oak,  whose  antique  root  peeps  out 
Upon  the  brook  that  brawls  along  this  wood : 
To  the  which  place  a  poor,  sequestered  stag, 
That  from  the  hunters'  aim  had  ta'en  a  hurt, 
Did  come  to  languish  ;  and,  indeed,  my  lord, 
The  wretched  animal  heaved  forth  such  groans 
That  their  discharge  did  stretch  his  leathern  coat 
Almost  to  bursting ;  and  the  big  round  tears 
Coursed  one  another  down  his  innocent  nose 
In  piteous  chase  ;  and  thus  the  hairy  fool, 
Much  marked  of  the  melancholy  Jaques, 

(61) 


52  FOREST    OP   ARDEN: 

Stood  on  the  extremest  verge  of  the  swift  brook, 
Augmenting  it  with  tears. 

Duke  S.  But  what  said  Jaques  ? 

Did  he  not  moralize  this  spectacle  ? 

1  Lord,     O,  yes,  into  a  thousand  similes. 
First,  for  his  weeping  into  the  needless  stream  ; 
"  Poor  deer,"  quoth  he,  "  thou  mak'st  a  testament 
As  worldUngs  do,  giving  thy  sum  of  more 
To  that  which  had  too  much."    Then  being  there  alone, 
Left  and  abandoned  of  his  velvet  friend : 
"  'Tis  right,"  quoth  he  ;  "  thus  misery  doth  part 
The  flux  of  company."     Anon,  a  careless  herd. 
Full  of  the  pasture,  jumps  along  by  him, 
And  never  stays  to  greet  him. 


THE  JEWELLER'S  DAUGHTER. 

BY    MRS.    ABDY. 

It  was  a  day  of  great  interest  in  the  quiet  little  coun- 
try town  of  Oakbury.  Mrs.  Everett  was  about  to  give 
a  dinner  party.     Now,  Mrs.  Everett  was  one  of  those 

"  Lean-jointured  widows  who  seldom  draw  corks, 
Whose  teaspoons  do  duty  for  knives  and  for  forks." 

To  give  a  dinner  party  at  all  was  a  remarkable 
event  on  her  part ;  still  more  so  to  invite  Sir  Thomas 
and  Lady  Chisholm,  who  lived  in  good  style  in  the 
neighborhood  of  Oakbury,  and,  above  all,  to  invite  them 
when  Colonel  and  Lady  Charlotte  Huntley  were  staying 
on  a  visit  to  them,  and  to  venture  on  the  desperate  step 
of  sending  a  card  to  the  fashionable  London  couple. 
That  the  invitation  should  ever  have  been  sent  was 
matter  of  wonder ;  that  it  should  have  been  accepted, 
Itill  more  so.  Some  envy  was  excited  by  Mrs.  Everett's 
5*  W 


64       THE  jeweller's  daughter. 

success ;  but  not  so  much  so  as  if,  after  the  usual  cus- 
tom of  country-town  ladies,  she  had  invited  no  one  but 
the  clergyman  and  physician  of  the  place  to  meet  her 
brilliant  guests.  Mrs.  Everett  asked  bcven  of  her  rela- 
tions to  dinner,  all  of  whom  felt  a  peculiar  wish  to  see 
and  to  converse  with  the  colonel  and  his  lady.  Oakbury 
was  a  dull,  primitive,  little  town;  indeed,  it  must  of 
course  have  been  so  to  have  felt  any  excitement  about 
such  a  trifling  matter  as  Mrs.  Everett's  dinner  party; 
and  my  readers  may  reasonably  wonder  what  link  could 
possibly  exist  between  its  denizens  and  the  stylish  pair 
to  whom  I  have  alluded  which  could  make  them  so 
desirous  of  an  introduction ;  yet  such  a  link  there 
was.  Colonel  and  Lady  Charlotte  Huntley  were  in 
the  habit  of  continually  meeting  in  London  with  Rosa- 
mond Sutton,  the  beautiful  heiress  of  the  wealthy  jew- 
eller, who,  in  right  of  her  own  loveliness  and  her  father's 
riches,  was  a  welcome  guest  in  the  first  society ;  and, 
strange  to  say,  Mrs.  Everett  and  her  family  party  were 
all  of  them  connected  by  first  or  second  cousinship  with 
the  jeweller,  who  had  actually  achieved  the  difficult 
point  of  making  his  wealth  talked  about  in  London. 

Many  years  ago  James  Sutton,  then  a  young  lad,  was 
smitten  with  the  ambition  of  going  up  to  London  and 
making  his  fortune  there.  His  parents  were  dead ;  and 
none  of  his  relations  interfered  to  prevent  him  from 


THE   jeweller's    DAUGHTER,  55 

doing  as  he  wished.  In  fact,  London  to  the  inhabitants 
of  Oakbuiy  at  that  time  was  what  CaUfornia  is  to  the 
rest  of  the  world  at  the  present  day  —  a  i)]ace  where 
gold  was  considered  certain  to  be  within  the  reach  of 
those  who  had  courage  to  stretch  out  their  hands  to 
grasp  at  it.  Sutton  had  an  old  schoolfellow  settled  in 
London ;  and  from  him  he  doubted  not  that  he  should 
immediately  be  able  to  obtain  information  of  at  least  a 
dozen  different  roads  to  fortune. 

As  for  the  story  of  Whittington,  although  Sutton  had 
more  than  once  read  it  attentively,  it  fell  far  short  of 
realizing  his  ambitious  ideas.  To  be  lord  mayor  for  a 
year,  and  then  to  relinquish  his  golden  glories,  would 
not  at  all  have  met  his  views  ;  no,  he  trusted  that  he 
should  eventually  be  able  not  only  to  gain,  but  to  main- 
tain, a  firm  footing  in  the  world's  high  places,  live  in  a 
series  of  perpetual  banquets,  and  associate  on  familiar 
terms  with  the  nobles  of  the  land.  Strange  aspirations 
these  for  a  moneyless  youth  reared  in  a  fourth-rate 
country  town  —  aspirations  which  some  of  his  friends 
concluded  would  terminate  in  an  unlimited  shower  of 
gold  and  others  in  a  leap  from  Blackfriars*  Bridge; 
neither  of  these  conjectures,  however,  seemed  likely  to 
be  verified.  Sutton,  soon  after  his  arrival  in  London, 
established  himself  as  assistant  to  a  working  jeweller ; 
iind  year  after  year  he  remained  with  him,  paying  an 


B6      THE  jeweller's  daughter. 

annual  visit  to  bis  friends  at  Oakbury ;  and,  in  return 
to  tbe  condolence  tbat  be  received  touching  bis  bumble 
position  in  tbe  great  city  of  London,  be  constantly  re- 
plied tbat "  it  was  a  difficult  tbing  to  gain  even  a  tolera- 
ble start  in  life,  and  tbat  be  was  disposed  to  tbink  tbat 
he  bad  been  very  fortunate  in  doing  so  well  as  be  bad 
done."  Years  passed  on ;  and,  altbougb  tbey  did  not 
improve  Sutton's  position  in  life,  tbey  greatly  improved 
bis  personal  appeai'ance  —  be  became  decidedly  good 
looking ;  and,  in  one  of  bis  visits  to  bis  native  town,  a 
certain  Miss  Margaretta  Sutton,  wbo  ranked  among  bis 
many  cousins,  gave  bim  such  unequivocal  tokens  of  her 
partiality  tbat  be  was  obliged  to  confide  to  another  lady 
cousin,  wbo  was  tbe  chosen  intimate  of  bis  enamoured 
fair  one,  bis  intention  of  "  only  marrying  to  improve  bis 
circumstances."  Now  again  could  tbe  good  people  of 
Oakbury  see  the  probability  that  a  golden  shower  might 
eventually  descend  on  tbe  bead  of  their  adventurous 
townsman.  Unluckily,  old  Willis,  the  working  jeweller, 
was  a  bachelor ;  he  had  no  daughter  to  dower,  no  wife 
wbo  might  become  bis  wealthy  relict;  these  roads  to 
story-book  prosperity  were  closed  to  Sutton ;  but  still 
London  abounded  with  heiresses,  —  at  least  so  thought 
the  unsophisticated  people  of  Oakbury,  —  and  they 
doubted  not  tbat  Sutton  v/ould  soon  be  successful  in 
gaining 


THE   jeweller's    DAUGHTER.  57 

"  A  weel-tocliered  lass  or  jointured  widow." 

Sutton,  however,  seemed  destined  to  fall  short  of  his 
own  ambitious  views  and  to  disappoint  those  of  his 
friends.  His  marriage  was  no  very  brilliant  affair,  after 
all ;  he  united  himself  with  a  plain,  quiet  widow,  some 
years  his  senior,  having  a  life  income  of  three  hundred 
a  year.  This  income,  nevertheless,  amply  sufficed  for 
the  expenses  of  Sutton's  frugal  establishment,  even 
■when  his  family  was  increased  by  the  birth  of  the 
little  Rosamond,  of  whom  honorable  mention  has  already 
been  made.  Shortly  after  Sutton's  marriage  the  jewel- 
ler, feeling  of  course  a  greater  inclination  to  befriend 
him  when  he  knew  that  he  was  independent  of  his  as- 
sistance, received  him  into  partnersliip ;  but  still  Sutton 
spent  not  an  additional  five-pound  note  in  consequence 
of  his  increased  exchequer.  His  wife  was  naturally 
retiring  and  economical,  and  was  quite  reconciled  to  the 
thrift  of  her  husband  when  he  told  her  that  it  was  neces- 
sary to  lay  by  a  poition  for  the  infant  Rosamond,  as  the 
income  of  each  of  her  parents  would  cease  with  their 
life.  Sutton  continued  his  annual  visits  to  Oakbury, 
where  his  wife  was  much  hked  and  the  beauty  of  his 
little  daughter  extremely  admired ;  in  fact,  his  marriage 
turned  out  no  bad  speculation  —  for  the  painstaking, 
money-loving  old  Willis  would  have  shrunk  from  the 
idea  of  enriching  a  couple  who  seemed  to  have  the  least 


58  THE   JEWELLER*S   DAUGHTEB. 

taste  for  spending  money  when  they  had  got  it.  ISfrs, 
Sutton  was  the  counterpart  of  her  prudent  husband; 
the  httle  Rosamond  was  brought  up  with  an  extremely 
limited  knowledge  of  toys,  bonbons,  and  necklaces ;  and, 
when  the  prudent  old  jeweller  departed  this  life  ten 
years  after  the  union  had  taken  place  which  had  given 
him  so  much  satisfaction,  it  appeared  that  he  had  left 
behind  him  a  substantial  token  of  his  approbation  of 
the  tactics  of  the  economical  pair  in  the  shape  of  a 
properly  signed  and  witnessed  parchment  whereby  he 
bequeathed  the  wiiole  of  his  property  of  every  descrip- 
tion to  his  esteemed  partner,  James  Sutton.  Whether 
the  surprise  of  sudden  wealth  was  too  much  for  the 
nerves  of  Mrs.  Sutton  I  cannot  say;  but  certain  it  is 
that  her  health  at  this  time  began  rapidly  to  decline, 
and  that  Sutton  was  a  widower  in  a  very  few  months 
after  he  became  an  heir.  Doubtless,  had  his  wife  died 
before  his  benefactor  he  would  have  bitterly  and  deeply 
mourned  for  the  loss  of  her  —  three  hundred  a  year. 
As  it  was,  he  bore  his  troubles  with  edifying  resigna- 
tion ;  he  had  never  really  loved  any  being  on  earth  but 
himself  and  his  daughter,  and  brilliant  prospects  now 
seemed  to  be  opening  to  both  of  them.  A  magnificent 
jeweller's  shop  in  a  fashionable  street  at  the  west  end  of 
the  town  shortly  gave  visible  signs  of  Sutton's  wealth ; 
the  windows  blazed  with  gems  ;  enraptured  pedestriani 


THE    jeweller's    DAUGHTER.  59 

stopped  to  cast  longing  looks  on  the  treasures  thus 
temptingly  displayed  to  them,  and  a  throng  of  splendid 
carriages  crowded  the  door.  Sutton  engaged  an  elegant 
private  residence ;  and  an  accomplished  and  highly-sal- 
aried governess  undertook  the  education  of  his  daughter, 
assisted  by  a  bevy  of  "  professors  "  of  all  sorts  of  ai*ts, 
sciences,  and  languages.  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  as  soon 
as  Sutton  became  wealthy  he  also  became  forgetful  of 
his  old  friends  at  Oakbury ;  his  summer  visits  were  now 
paid  to  the  continent;  and  the  correspondence  which 
his  wife  had  so  patiently  and  indefatigably  kept  up  with 
Mrs.  Everett,  Mrs.  Mullins,  IMiss  Colyton,  and  half  a 
dozen  other  cousins,  was  suffered  to  fall  to  the  ground. 
Deeply  did  the  inhabitants  of  Oakbury  lament  that  their 
townsman  should  become  lost  to  them  just  as  they  had 
reason  to  feel  proud  of  him ;  they  could  not  console 
themselves  by  saying  it  was  "the  way  of  the  world,"  for 
of  the  world  and  its  ways  they  knew  nothing  —  Oakbury 
at  that  time  being  unable  to  boast  even  of  a  hterary 
institution  or  a  railway  to  London. 

Years  rolled  on ;  the  jeweller's  wealth  gathered  like 
a  snowball ;  the  governess  retired  on  an  annuity ,  Ros- 
amond took  the  head  of  her  father's  table ;  they  removed 
into  a  larger  house  and  engaged  additional  carriages 
and  servants.  Various  "  nymphs  of  quality"  had  "  ad- 
mired "  or  affected  to  admire  the  jeweller ;  but  none  of 


60  THE   jeweller's    DAUGHTER. 

their  spells  was  successful ;  he  openly  declared  his  res(r 
lution  never  to  marry  and  his  intention  that  none  but  a 
man  of  rank  should  marry  his  daughter.  There  was 
small  difficulty  apparently  in  bringing  about  this  ar- 
rangement ;  the  jeweller's  wealth  was  sufficient  to  pur- 
chase half  a,  dozen  scions  of  quality ;  but  his  daughter 
and  himself  were  particular  in  their  choice,  and  Rosa- 
mond did  not,  as  was  predicted,  marry  in  her  first  sea^ 
son.  That  first  season  was  just  over.  Rosamond  had 
lent  the  light  of  her  countenance  to  the  Book  of  Beauty, 
had  been  celebrated  by  fashionable  poets,  and  panegy- 
rized in  fashionable  newspapers. 

Mrs.  Everett  could  no  longer  resist  the  craving  de- 
sire she  felt  to  behold  and  to  exhibit  to  others  the  noted 
beauty  to  whom  she  was  allied;  letter  after  letter  of 
solicitation  was  sent  to  the  long-obdurate  jeweller,  till  at 
length,  fairly  worn  out  by  the  tenacity  of  his  country 
cousin,  he  very  reluctantly  promised  that  his  daughter 
and  himself  should  spend  a  couple  of  days  at  Mrs. 
Evei'ett's  house  in  their  way  to  visit  a  titled  friend  in 
the  north.  Like  most  pleasures  to  which  people  have 
eagerly  looked  forward,  this  visit  proved  a  disappoint- 
ment to  the  people  of  Oakbury ;  the  good-natured,  un- 
assuming Sutton  had  been  converted  by  prosperity  into 
"  a  very  magnificent,  three-tailed  bashaw,"  making  con- 
stant  allusioiAS   to   the   marquises   and  viscounts    with 


THE  jeweller's  DAUGHTER.  61 

whom  he  seemed  to  live  oa  the  most  intimate  terms, 
patronizing  the  cousins  who  used  to  patronize  him,  and 
condescendingly  praising  the  viands  which  he  once  es- 
teemed it  a  great  favor  to  be  invited  to  partake  of. 
Rosamond  was  still  more  changed ;  the  timid,  plainly- 
dressed,  simple-mannered  child  was  now  a  brilliant, 
graceful  girl  of  fashion,  dressed  in  the  extreme  of  the 
mode,  playing  and  singing  like  a  professor,  (according 
to  the  Oakbury  ideas  of  a  professor,)  and  talking  inces- 
santly of  operas,  fancy  balls,  and  public  breakfasts.  The 
French  waiting  maid  of  Rosamond  and  the  Swiss  valet 
of  her  father  acquitted  themselves  still  less  to  the  satis- 
faction of  Oakbury  than  their  superiors  ;  unfortunately, 
they  could  both  speak  English  well  enough  to  be  under- 
stood, and  their  criticisms  on  the  discomforts  and  short- 
comings of  Mrs.  Everett's  establishment  —  all  faithfully 
reported  to  that  lady  by  her  housemaid  —  were  pecu- 
liarly pointed  and  expressive.  It  was  a  relief  to  all 
parties  when  the  visit  came  to  an  end ;  and  it  was  never 
repeated.  Still,  however,  the  jeweller  and  his  daughter 
were  regarded  by  the  people  of  Oakbury  in  the  light  of 
a  property;  and  they  made  them  a  constant  subject 
of  conversation  when  in  company  with  new  acquaint- 
ance. 

There  was  a  little  bathing-place  at  a  convenient  dis 
tancc  from  Oakbury,  consisting  of  a  dozen   cottages, 
6 


62  THE  JEWELLEH'S  DAUGHTER. 

three  villas,  a  few  shops,  a  library,  and  a  couple  uf 
hotels,  where  in  the  autumn  a  tolerable  number  of  per- 
sons were  wont  to  congregate.  And  here  Sutton's  Oak- 
burj  relatives  particularly  shone.  They  were  contin- 
ually repeating  anecdotes  of  the  rich  jeweller  and  his 
fascinating  daughter,  unsparingly  heaping  upon  them  all 
soi-ts  of  private  good  qualities  in  addition  to  their  pub- 
licly known  advantages ;  indeed,  they  appeared  qualified 
to  draw  their  characters  with  fidelity,  since,  according  to 
their  own  account,  Sutton  was  in  the  habit  of  asking 
advice  on  matters  of  importance  from  all  the  elderly 
men  of  Oakbury,  and  his  daughter  was  the  bosom  friend 
of  all  the  young  ladies  in  it.  Latterly,  however,  they 
had  felt  a  great  wish  to  add  to  their  stock  of  anecdotes 
from  some  authentic  source  of  information ;  and  Mrs. 
Everett  obtained  great  credit  from  having  originated 
the  bold  stroke  of  inviting  tlie  London  couple  to  her 
house.  Her  invitation  was  accepted  because  Sir  Thomas 
Chisholm  had  a  nephew  on  the  point  of  standing  for  the 
county,  and  wished  to  cultivate  the  good  graces  of  his 
country  neighbors ;  and  for  the  same  reason  Sir  Thomas 
and  Lady  Chisholm  and  their  accommodating  visitors 
took  their  places  at  Mrs.  Everett's  board  in  the  most 
amiable  of  all  possible  moods,  resolved  to  please  and  be 
pleased ;  and,  when  they  found  that  their  hostess  was 
particularly  anxious  to  talk  about  Rosamond   Sutton, 


THE  jeweller's  DAUGHTER.  65 

Ihej  slio\\'ed  themselves  perfectly  willing  to  keep  up  tlie 
ball  of  conversation  just  as  long  as  she  wished. 

"  In  my  opinion,"  said  Mrs.  Everett,  "  Rosamond  is 
a  model  of  beauty  and  excellence;  but  perhaps  as  a 
near  relation  I  may  be  allowed  to  be  partial." 

"  I  cannot  admit  that  you  show  any  partiality,"  replied 
Lady  Charlotte.  "  Miss  Sutton  quite  verifies  the  char- 
acter you  give  of  her ;  the  Marchioness  of  Arlingford 
was  lately  observing  to  me  that  Miss  Sutton  was  not  only 
one  of  the  most  beautiful  girls  in  London,  but  that  her 
mind  and  manners  would  render  her  attractive  even 
if  she  were  deprived  of  every  personal  recommenda- 
tion." 

Happy  Mrs.  Everett!  How  she  triumphed  in  the 
success  of  her  dinner  party !  How  she  colored  with 
delight  at  the  idea  that  she  was  second  cousin  to  a  fash- 
ionable beauty  who  had  been  admired  and  commended 
by  a  marchioness ! 

"  Miss  Sutton's  lovers,"  pursued  Lady  Charlotte,  "are, 
as  you  may  conceive,  numerous ;  many  wonder  that  she 
still  remains  unmarried." 

"  Dear  Rosamond  ! "  said  Mrs.  MuUins,  sentimentally, 
"I  am  selfish  enough  to  wish  that  she  may  continue 
single ;  marriage  so  oflen  estranges  a  girl  from  her 
family." 

If  marriage  could  have  estranged  Rosamond  Sut-to» 


64       THE  jeweller's  daughter. 

from  her  family  more  than  she  was  estranged  abeadj  il 
would,  indeed,  have  brought  about  a  great  marvel. 

"Her  offers  of  marriage,"  said  Colonel  Huntley, 
"  have  all  been  from  men  of  rank ;  it  is  understood  that 
her  father  would  sanction  no  other  suitors." 

"I  should  think  not,  indeed,"  said  !Mrs.  Everett, 
drawing  herself  up  with  dignity. 

"And  even  these  suitors,"  continued  the  colonel, 
"  have  a  difficult  part  to  play ;  for  Mr.  Sutton  is  apt  to 
suspect  that  they  are  attracted  towards  his  daughter  by 
the  charms  of  her  dowry." 

"  I  should  hope  tliose  mercenary  motives  are  not  very 
common  in  any  rank  of  life,"  said  Mr.  Mulhns,  who,  be 
it  knoAvn  to  my  readers,  had  married  an  extremely 
plain,  shrewish  woman  for  the  sake  of  her  four  thousand 
pounds. 

"  Lord  Robert  Ransford,"  said  Lady  Charlotte,  "  had 
wealth  as  well  as  rank,  and  was,  I  believe,  truly  and 
devotedly  attached  to  Miss  Sutton ;  but  she  refused  him 
because  she  could  not  reciprocate  his  attachment." 

"  Exactly  my  own  feelings,"  murmured  Louisa  Mul- 
lins,  who  had  for  two  years  been  laying  desperate  siege 
to  a  gouty,  ill-tempered  old  miser. 

"  At  present,"  said  Lady  Charlotte,  "  she  has  two  dis- 
tinguished admirers,  who  are  rivals  for  her  good  graces. 
Lord  Belson  is  reported  to  stand  high  in  her  own  good 


THE  jeweller's  daugiitek.  65 

opinion,  the  Earl  of  Eppingliara  in  that  of  her  father. 
But  I  am  repeating  what  cannot  by  any  possibility  be 
matter  of  news  to  the  present  party." 

"  O,  surely  not,"  replied  JMrs.  Everett.  «  But  the 
subject  of  dear  Rosamond  is  one  of  which  we  are  never 
weary ;  she  and  her  father  occasionally  spend  a  part  of 
the  summer  with  us ; "  (Mrs.  Everett  did  not  absolutely 
violate  truth  by  this  statement,  inasmuch  as  the  memo- 
rable two  days  spent  with  her  by  the  Suttons  certainly 
constituted  a  part  of  the  summer ;)  "  and  I  assure  you 
we  are  eagerly  looking  forward  to  their  next  visit." 

"  Mr.  Sutton,"  said  the  colonel,  "  is  a  devoted  father 
and  an  excellent  man." 

"  He  is,  indeed,"  sighed  Miss  Margaretta  Sutton,  the 
cousin  who  five  and  twenty  years  before  had  fixed  her 
youthful  affections  on  the  assistant  of  the  working  jew- 
eller, and  who  was  now  a  sharp,  sour-looking  old  maid. 

"  I  am  sure  we  have  all  reason  to  say  so,"  said  Miss 
Sutton,  her  still  sharper  and  sourer-looking  elder  sister. 
"  I  remember  the  time " 

Here  Colonel  Huntley,  who  thought  that  remem- 
brance had  now  gone  to  its  utmost  allowable  extent, 
interposed  wi^^-*  a  remark  about  the  opera  house  which 
had  the  effect  of  turning  the  conversation,  much  to  the 
regret  of  the  Oakbury  cousins,  who  could  have  talked 
about  Rosamond  Sutton  and  her  father  till  midnight 
6* 


66  THE  jeweller's  daughter. 

without  showing  any  signs  of  weariness.  Nevertheless, 
there  was  a  handsome  young  man  of  the  party  who  had 
studiously  avoided  taking  any  share  in  the  discourse; 
and  yet  he  also  was  one  of  the  enviable  cousins  of  the 
heiress.  His  parents,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Colyton,  had  been 
among  the  kindest  of  Sutton's  relations  —  always  giving 
to  himself,  his  wife,  and  child,  in  their  yearly  visits  to 
Oakbury,  not  only  a  warm  and  hospitable  welcome,  but 
many  acceptable  little  presents. 

A  few  years  after  Sutton's  inheritance  of  old  Willis's 
hoards  they  had  both  died,  leaving  a  small  property  to 
their  son,  who  had  just  taken  orders  and  accepted  a 
curacy  in  a  neighboring  village.  Colyton  was  scA-en 
years  older  than  Rosamond  Sutton  ;  he  had  been  not 
only  the  playfellow,  but  the  protector,  of  the  timid  child ; 
he  had  deeply  lamented  the  cessation  of  all  intercourse 
with  her;  and  none  expected  her  arrival  with  more 
heartfelt  interest  than  himself  when  she  and  her  father 
vouchsafed  to  pay  their  two  days'  visit  to  Mrs.  Everett. 
Yet  to  no  one  did  Rosamond  behave  with  so  little  kind- 
ness as  to  Colyton;  her  relations  in  general  were  so 
perfectly  well  disposed  to  consider  her  as  a  descending 
goddess  that  she  could  not  well  avoid  iniusing  a  little 
graciousness  into  the  appropriate  dignity  of  that  char- 
acter ;  but  Colyton,  in  whose  mind,  at  the  moment  of 
meeting,  the  lapse  of  time  and  distinctions  of  worldly 


THE   jeweller's    DAUGHTER.  67 

fvealth  were  annihilated,  and  who  only  beheld  in  his 
cousin  the  "  little  Rosamond "  of  former  days,  greeted 
her  with  such  unquestionable  warmth  and  cordiality  that 
the  spoiled  beauty,  accustomed  to  the  smooth  flatteries 
of  the  nobles  of  the  land,  had  become  distant  and  freez- 
ing in  her  manner;  and  the  Lady  of  Lyons  could 
scarcely  have  evinced  more  scorn  to  the  enamoured 
Claude  Melnotte  than  did  the  London  heiress  to  the 
presumptuous  country  curate.  Yet  in  spite  of  her  dis- 
dain she  was  seldom  absent  from  the  thoughts  of  Coly- 
ton;  and  he  listened  to  the  accounts  of  her  splendor 
and  gayety  not  with  pleasure,  still  less  with  envy,  but 
with  fear  lest  the  temptations  of  the  wo^ld  might  prove 
fatal  to  her  happiness,  and  lest  she  should  become  the 
unit  /ed  wife  of  one  who  might  wed  her  not  for  herself, 
but  for  her  riches. 

When  the  ladies  retired  into  the  drawiiig  room  Lady 
Charlotte  was  again  beset  with  eager  inquiries  on  the 
subject  of  Rosamond  Sutton,  to  all  of  which  she  good 
naturedly  replied ;  and  the  "  womankind  "  of  Oakbury, 
who  had  hitherto  only  possessed  floating  and  indefinite 
ideas  of  the  style  in  which  Rosamond  lived,  were  now 
actually  made  aware  of  the  color  of  her  carriages  and 
liveries,  the  costumes  which  she  had  worn  at  fancy 
balls,  and  the  songs  which  she  had  sung  at  musical  par- 
ties.    At  length  tbs    STciirg  came  to  an  end.     The 


63       THE  jeweller's  daughter. 


Chisholms  and  Huntleys  honored  the  company  they  left 
behind  with  a  very  brief  notice. 

"  How  fond  those  people  are  of  talking  about  the 
Suttons  !"  said  Lady  Charlotte  Huntley. 

"  And  really/'  replied  Lady  Chisholm,  "  they  have  no 
reason  to  be  fond  of  the  subject ;  it  is  years  since  the 
Suttons  have  taken  the  smallest  notice  of  them." 

Not  so  brief  was  the  conversation  in  Mrs.  Everett's 
drawing  room. 

"  Really,"  said  Mrs.  Everett,  taking  the  lead  in  dis- 
course, as  she  had  the  right  of  a  hostess  to  do,  "  when 
I  hear  all  these  particulars  of  the  grandeur  of  Sutton 
and  his  daughter,  I  am  more  and  more  shocked  at  their 
ingratitude.  Why  are  we  to  be  informed  of  all  these 
festivities  '  y  strangers  ?  Why  are  we  not  to  be  invited 
as  relations  to  partake  of  them  ?  " 

"  Carriages  at  command  must  certainly  be  a  great 
luxury,"  said  Mr.  Richard  Sutton,  who  suffered  griev- 
ously from  rheumatic  gout. 

"  And  how  delightful  to  be  able  to  go  to  fancy  balls 
in  character ! "  exclaimed  Louisa  Mullins.  "  Rosamond 
Sutton  appeared  at  one  ball  as  Anne  Boleyn,  at  another 
as  Psyche,  and  at  a  third  as  the  White  Lady  of  Ave- 
nel." 

"Then  how  many  eligible  offers  of  mamage  she 
^cems  to  have  received ! "  exclaimed  Miss  Margaretta 


THE   jeweller's    DAUGHTER.  69 

Sutton,  (who  had  never  received  one  in  her  life,)  heav 
ing  a  deep  sigh  as  she  spoke. 

"  It  is  sad,"  remarked  ]VIi's.  Mullins,  looking  intently 
on  her  daughter,  "  that,  where  Nature  has  made  so  little 
distinction  between  young  people.  Fortune  should  make 
so  much." 

No  one  was  so  ill  bred  as  to  contradict  IVIrs.  Mullins's 
inference ;  but,  in  reality.  Nature  had  made  a  great  deal 
of  difference  between  Miss  Mullins  and  her  cousin  — 
the  one  being  clumsy,  plain,  and  dull ;  while  the  other 
was  abundantly  gifted  with  grace,  beauty,  and  talent. 

"  You  do  not  seem  to  have  a  word  to  say  on  the  sub- 
ject," said  Mrs.  Everett,  sharply  addressing  Colyton; 
"and  yet  I  am  sure  you  have  been  as  ungi-atefully 
treated  as  any  of  us.  What  kindness  was  shown  to  the 
Suttons  by  your  father  and  mother  and  your  father's 
sister !  and  what  repayment  of  it  have  you  ever  had  ? 
A  word  from  Sutton  to  one  of  his  titled  friends  would, 
very  likely,  get  you  the  promise  of  a  good  living." 

"  I  am  not  ambitious,  my  dear  aunt,"  replied  the 
young  man,  "  and  probably  am  far  happier  in  my  state 
of  mediocrity  than  my  London  relatives  in  the  midst  of 
then*  splendor.  There  are  many  temptations  attendant 
upon  prosperity,  and  also  the  great  danger  of  a  reverse. 
We  frequently  hear  of  rich  men  who  su\idenly  become 
poor    and,  m  that  case,  how  much  happier  woald  it  have 


70  THE   JEWELL KR*S    DAUGHTER. 

been  for  them,  had  they,  hke  me,  been  accustomed  to 
*  range  with  humble  livers  in  content ' ! " 

"  It  is  absurd,"  said  Mrs.  Everett,  "  to  talk  of  James 
Sutton  ever  being  a  poor  man.  I  should  just  as  soon 
think  of  the  failure  of  the  Bank  of  England.  He  is 
more  likely  to  be  raised  than  depressed  in  the  world.  I 
suppose  he  will  soon  be  saluting  his  daughter  as  Countess 
of  Eppingham ! " 

"And  forgetting  his  best  and  earliest  friends,"  said 
Miss  Margaretta,  spitefully,  "  in  the  distribution  of  cake 
and  cards.  I  dare  say  we  shall  only  hear  of  the  mar- 
riage through  the  newspapers." 

The  next  morning  Colyton,  at  an  early  hour,  entered 
the  simple,  pretty  little  cottage  of  his  maiden  aunt. 
Miss  Colyton  had  been  invited  to  join  Mrs.  Everett's 
dinner  party ;  but  indisposition  had  prevented  her.  She 
was  a  remarkably  amiable  person,  intelligent,  sweet 
tempered,  and  unaffectedly  religious  ;  she  was  charitable 
to  the  poor  on  a  small  income,  and  was  a  great  favorite 
with  her  equals ;  for  she  possessed  the  difficult  art  of 
giving  advice  without  giving  offence,  and  the  still  more 
difficult  art  of  knowing  when  to  refrain  from  giving  it 
at  all.  None  had  shown  more  kindness  than  herself  to 
Sutton  and  his  daughter  in  former  days  ;  but  she  never 
complained  of  their  ingratitude  nor  envied  their  pros- 
perity. 


THE  jeweller's  DAUGHTEE.         71 

"  I  tremble  for  poor  Rosamond,"  she  said,  when  her 
nephew  had  given  her  an  account  of  the  party  of  the 
preceding  day.  "  Thrown  into  the  vortex  of  the  world, 
without  a  hand  to  restrain  her  or  a  voice  to  warn  her 
of  its  dangers,  I  can  scarcely  venture  to  hope  that  she 
will  escape  unhurt.  Truly  did  Bishop  Latimer  say, 
*  He  was  justly  accounted  a  skilful  poisoner  who  de- 
stroyed his  victims  by  bouquets  of  lovely  and  fragrant 
flowers.  The  art  has  not  been  lost ;  nay,  it  is  practised 
every  day  by  the  world.'  " 

Two  days  from  this  time  Mr.  MuUins  was  leisurely 
and  composedly  unfolding  the  newspaper.  Had  he  in- 
dulged Mrs.  MuUins  or  Louisa  with  the  first  reading 
of  it  they  would  unquestionably  have  turned  to  the 
marriages,  that  they  might  have  ascertained  if  Rosa- 
mond Sutton  had  yet  become  a  countess ;  and,  failing 
of  making  any  discovery  in  that  quarter,  they  would 
have  sought  for  an  account  of  fashionable  festivities,  to 
learn  if  she  had  appeared  in  any  new  character  at  a 
fancy  ball.  Mr.  MuUins,  however,  did  neither  of  these 
things ;  he  turned,  as  was  his  constant  custom,  to  the 
list  of  bankrupts. 

Surprising !  Could  he  really  trust  the  evidence  of 
his  own  eyes?  Was  it,  could  it  be,  the  fact  that 
James  Sutton  figured  among  the  bankrupts?  Sutton, 
so  wealthy  that  he  was  worth  incalculable  sums,  and  so 


72       THE  jeweller's  daughter. 

honorable  that  "  his  word  would  pass  for  more  than  he 
was  worth,"  could  Sutton  indeed  be  degraded,  penniless 
—  nay,  worse  than  penniless  ? 

In  another  part  of  the  paper  was  a  confirmation  of 
this  statement  in  the  shape  of  a  paragraph  expressing 
much  astonishment  at  the  unlooked-for  event ;  but  hint- 
ing at  a  speculation  in  railroads  as  the  cause  of  it. 
Railroads  are  certainly  very  convenient  things,  both  in 
novels  and  real  life  Whenever  a  man  becomes  sud- 
denly and  unaccountably  ruined,  railroad  speculations 
are  constantly  seized  upon  as  the  solution  of  the  mys- 
tery, and  nobody  ever  thinks  of  questioning  it. 

Mr.  Mullins  speedily  made  the  results  of  his  morning 
reading  known  to  Mrs.  Mullins  and  Louisa ;  and  they 
eagerly  set  out,  in  a  sharp,  drizzling  rain,  to  spread 
the  intelligence  through  Oakbury. 

The  feelings  of  Sutton's  relations  were  of  a  mixed 
kind.  It  was  quite  clear  that  they  must  abstain  from 
all  future  boasting  on  the  subject  of  the  jeweller  and 
his  daughter.  They  must  appear  with  greatly  dimin- 
ished consequence  at  their  favorite  little  watering-place ; 
but  still  there  were  counterbalancing  advantages  in  the 
matter. 

Rochefoucauld  says  that  "there  is  something  in  the 
misfortunes  of  our  best  friends  that  does  not  displease 
us."     Now,  Sutton  was  not  the  "best  friend"  of  any 


THE  jeweller's  DAUGHTER.        73 

body  in  Oakbury.  He  had  wounded  the  pride  of  his 
family  by  his  long-continued  neglect;  and  so  far  from 
being  a  displeasing,  it  was  rather  an  agreeable,  reflec- 
tion that  he  had  sunk  decidedly  beneath  them,  inasmuch 
that  he  was  oppressed  by  the  weight  of  innumerable 
debts,  while  they  had  got  their  receipted  Christmas  bills 
snugly  ensconced  in  their  writing  desks  or  secretaries. 

Miss  Margaretta  Sutton  was  peculiarly  aUve  to  this 
feehng,  and  talked  so  much  about  her  "  lucky  escape  in 
not  marrying  James  Sutton  "  that  she  almost  persuaded 
herself — although  she  failed  in  persuading  her  audi- 
tors—  that  she  really  had  once  had  the  option  of 
doing  so. 

Colyton  and  his  aunt  were  the  only  persons  who  truly 
felt  grieved  at  the  intelligence  that  their  dignified  towns- 
man had  thus  abruptly  "  fallen  from  liis  high  estate." 

"  Poor  Rosamond!"  concluded  Colyton,  after  half  an 
hour's  conversation,  in  which  not  one  ill-natured  or  self- 
righteous  remark  had  been  made  by  himself  or  his  com- 
panion. "  How  sad  a  change  for  her !  How  soon  will 
she  have  cause  to  experience  the  fallacy  of  the  friend- 
ship of  the  world  ! " 

"  Let  us  hope,"  said  Miss  Colyton,  "  that  there  is  a 
bright  side  to  the  question,  and  that  this  misfortune 
may  prove  a  blessing  to  our  dear  Kosamond.  Well  and 
truly  has  Wordsworth  said,  — 


m 


74  THE  JEWELLERS  DAUGHTER. 

*  The  shower  whose  reckless  burden  weighs 
Too  heavily  upon  the  lily's  head. 
Oft  leaves  a  saving  moisture  at  its  root.* " 


The  jeweller  and  his  daughter  were  seated  in  one  of 
the  smallest  rooms  of  the  splendid  house  from  which 
they  were  soon  to  take  their  departure  forever.  Three 
weeks  had  elapsed  since  Sutton's  bankruptcy  had  been 
proclaimed,  and  the  fashionable  world  had  behaved  just 
as  badly  as  the  most  bitter  satirist  or  the  most  gloomy 
cynic  could  have  predicted.  The  young  friends  who 
had  "  loved  Rosamond  as  a  sister,"  the  matrons  who  had 
"regarded  her  as  a  daughter,"  the  elderly  men  of 
fashion  who  had  "wished  themselves  young  for  her 
sake,"  the  lover  of  her  own  choice,  the  lover  of  her 
father's  recommendation,  —  all  were  seized  with  a  sud- 
den unanimity  of  purpose  which  induced  them  to  think 
that  the  very  kindest  way  of  consoling  the  Suttons  in 
their  trouble  was  to  leave  them  entirely  to  themselves. 
Too  true  is  it,  that,  when  Poverty  comes  in  it  at  the 
door.  Friendship  is  to  the  full  as  ready  as  Love  to  jump 
out  of  the  window. 

"Next  week,  dearest  Rosamond,"  said  poor  Sutton, 
"  we  must  remove  from  this  house.  I  cannot  quit  Lon- 
don ;  I  have  many  arrangements  to  make  in  my  con- 
fused affairs.     We  must  separate  for  a  time ;  and  happy 


THE   JEWELL EU*5    DAUGHTER.  75 

am  I  to  say  that  a  friend  has  kindly  offered  to  take 
charge  of  you." 

"  The  Marchioness  of  Arlingford  ?  "  eagerly  inquired 
Rosamond. 

The  lady  to  whom  she  alluded  was  the  aunt  of  her 
favored  admirer,  Lord  Belson,  and  had  always  professed 
the  warmest  affection  for  her. 

"  The  marchioness  has  neither  called  nor  written," 
Baid  Sutton,  dryly,  "  since  she  heard  of  our  misfortunes." 

"  I  am  glad,"  said  Rosamond,  wdth  a  sigh,  "  that  we 
have  even  a  solitary  friend  remaining ;  but  I  am  per- 
fectly unable  to  guess  her  name." 

"  She  is  one  of  our  relations  at  Oakbury,"  replied 
her  father. 

*'  Mrs.  Everett,  no  doubt,"  said  Rosamond,  reddening. 
"  Dear  father,  do  not  accept  her  invitation.  She,  who 
was  so  fawning  and  servile  in  our  prosperity,  will  indem- 
nify herself  for  our  neglect  of  her  by  her  malicious 
triumph  over  us  in  our  adversity." 

"  Fear  not,  Rosamond,"  replied  her  father ;  "  the  let- 
ter does  not  come  from  Mrs.  Everett,  but  from  a  very 
different  person.  You  need  apprehend  no  ungener- 
ous triumph  from  her.  I  experienced  many  instances 
of  friendship  from  her  in  former  days ;  and  you  also, 
young  as  you  were  at  the  time  of  our  mtimacy,  can 
have  no  difficulty  in  calling  to  mind  the  kindness  that 


76       THE  jeweller's  daughter. 

she  always  showed  toward?  you.  "We  have  both  for- 
gotten her  for  a  time ;  but  .his  letter  will  show  that  i^ 
our  trials  she  has  not  for^  'tten  us." 

And  he  put  into  Rosamond's  hand  a  letter,  which,  as 
my  readers  have  doubtless  ere  this  conjectured,  came 
from  the  warmhearted  and  sympathizing  Miss  Colyton 
♦  «  *  *  » 

Poor  IMiss  Colyton  !  she  had  done  a  really  kind  and 
disinterested  deed  in  oiFering  Rosamond  shelter  and  pro- 
tection till  her  father  had  adjusted  his  most  pressing 
difficulties ;  but  every  body  in  Oakbury  with  the  excep- 
tion of  her  nephew,  who  was  just  as  kind  and  disinter- 
ested as  herself,  highly  disapproved  of  the  course  she 
was  pursuing.  Her  conduct  was  by  turns  designated  as 
*'mean  spirited,"  "romantic,"  and  " pharisaical ; "  all 
possible  and  impossible  evils  were  predicted  as  the  result 
of  Rosamond's  residence  in  her  house;  it  might  have 
seemed  that,  hke  Clmstabel,  (only  that  none  of  the  Oak- 
bury  people  had  ever  read  Christabel,)  she  was  on  the 
point  of  inviting  an  evil  spirit  to  cross  her  threshold  in 
the  guise  of  a  beautiful  lady.  Miss  Colyton,  however, 
was  undismayed  by  all  tliese  denunciations ;  she  knew 
that  she  was  performing  her  duty  in  showing  kindness 
to  the  friendless,  deserted  Rosamond ;  and  the  love  that 
she  had  borne  towards  her  when  slie  was  an  engaging, 
artless   child,   rendered   that   duty  a  pleasure  tocher. 


THE   JEWELLi:i:'5    DAUGHTER,  77 

Rosamond  arrived  on  the  appointed  day,  conducted  by 
her  father,  who,  after  warmly  and  cordially  expressing 
his  thanks  to  INIiss  Colyton,  took  his  departure  ;  and  the 
flattered  London  beauty,  with  a  limited  quantity  of  lug- 
gage and  no  waiting  maid,  was  left  to  domesticate  herself 
as  best  she  could  in  a  very  small  quiet  cottage,  an  elderly 
single  lady  her  only  companion,  and  two  plain,  neat 
country  girls  her  only  attendants.  Rosamond's  trials, 
however,  came  not  from  those  within  the  house,  but 
from  those  without  it ;  the  perpetual  wonder  expressed 
by  Mrs.  Everett  regarding  the  imprudence  of  her  father, 
the  sneering  condolence  of  Miss  Margaretta  Sutton 
touching  the  defection  of  her  lovers,  Mrs.  MuUins's 
ceaseless  questions  whether  she  did  not  sadly  miss  her 
carriages  and  servants,  and  Louisa  Mullins's  unweai'ied 
curiosity  to  learn  the  minutest  particulars  of  the  cos- 
tumes of  Anne  Boleyn,  Psyche,  and  the  White  Lady  of 
Avenel,  —  these  were  indeed  hard  to  bear ;  but  Rosamond 
came  through  the  ordeal  wonderfully  well.  In  the  first 
place,  she  was  four  years  older  than  when  she  enacted 
the  descending  goddess  on  her  former  visit  to  Oakbury ; 
increasing  years  had  brought  with  them  increased  good 
taste  and  feeling ;  and  she  would  not  now,  under  any  cir- 
cumstances, have  received  with  hauteur  the  fussy  atten- 
tions of^  Mrs.  Everett,  or  chilled  with  disdain  the  warm- 
hearted regard  of  Coljton.     Secondly,  she  had  suffered 


78  THE  jeweller's  daughter. 

adversity;  she  had  tried  the  world's  friendship,  and 
found  it  wanting ;  her  fancy,  although  not  her  heart,  liad 
been  engaged  to  Lord  Belson;  and  when  his  conduct 
clearly  evinced  that  his  motives  for  seeking  her  hand 
had  been  merely  of  a  mercenary  character,  she  felt 
grateful  for  her  escape,  and  disposed  to  think  that  honest 
good  will,  or  even  undisguised  indifference,  was  pref 
erable  to  the  smooth,  honeyed  declai'ations  of  affection 
and  devotion  which  had  really  never  existed.  There- 
fore was  Rosamond  Sutton  disposed  to  love  and  resj^ect 
the  quiet,  unassuming  Miss  Colyton,  whose  kindness  to 
her  was  so  unquestionably  disinterested ;  and  therefore 
was  she  ready  to  tolerate  even  the  occasional  imperti- 
nence of  a  few  of  the  Oakbury  denizens,  because  she 
felt  impertinence  to  be  far  superior  to  insincerity.  Ros- 
amond, however,  was  not  long  destined  to  suffer  imper- 
tinence, for  the  Oakbury  people  soon  began  to  like  her 
very  well  indeed ;  they  were  selfish,  shallow,  and  narrow 
minded ;  but  none  of  them,  not  even  Miss  Margaretta 
Sutton,  possessed  that  inherent  and  bitter  spirit  of  ma- 
lignity, utterly  incapable  of  being  disarmed  by  inoffen- 
siveness  and  gentleness.  The  Oakbury  people  had  long 
entertained  a  most  exaggerated  idea  of  Rosamond's  lux- 
urious habits  and  splendid  appointments ;  and  they  would 
have  been  ready  to  believe  any  one  who  had  asserted 
©f  her  as  Fag  does  of  Lydia  Languish,  in  the  comedy 


THE  jeweller's  daugiiter.  79 

of  The  Rivals,  that  her  thread  papers  were  made  of 
bank  notes,  and  that  she  fed  her  parrot  with  small  pearls  ! 
Then  they  had  ascertained  that  the  creditors  of  a  bank- 
rupt laid  no  claim  to  the  "  vanities  "  of  a  lady's  ward- 
robe ;  therefore,  if  they  had  been  required  to  put  their 
thoughts  into  words,  they  would  have  predicted  that 
Rosamond  would  have  descended  to  breakfast  in  bro- 
caded silk  and  Valenciennes  lace,  paid  morning  visits  in 
a  white  satin  pelisse,  and  gone  to  tea  drinkings  in  a  silver 
gauze  dress  :  as  for  her  daily  employments,  they  sup- 
posed that  they  would  principally  consist  in  painting 
greenhouse  exotics  and  singing  Italian  bravuras.  Rosa- 
mond, however,  like  all  sensible  persons,  knew  that  fine 
dresses  and  fine  ways  would  neither  suit  her  fallen  for- 
tunes nor  the  locality  in  which  for  the  present  she 
seemed  destined  to  remain ;  and  Oakbury  soon  dis- 
covered, to  its  very  great  surprise,  that  the  fashionable 
beauty  wore  muslin  dresses  and  a  straw  bonnet  worked 
with  a  needle,  and  sang  English  ballads.  I  do  not 
mean  to  say  that  Rosamond  accommodated  herself  with- 
out an  effort  to  her  new  mode  of  living ;  she  felt  the 
want  of  many  luxuries  which  to  her  seemed  necessaries 
of  existence ;  she  lamented  the  deprivation  of  literary 
institutions,  galleries  of  pictures,  and  concerts  of  fine 
music ;  and  she  missed  the  conversation  of  the  world ; 
for,  trifling  and  superficial  as  it  often  was,  it  at  least 


80  THE  jeweller's  DAUGHTER. 

boasted  the  charm  of  variety  and  of  refinement.  She 
was  accustomed  to  hear  of  the  most  interesting  private 
and  public  events  while  the  bloom  of  novelty  was  fresh 
upon  thftm ;  and  it  was  wearying  to  her  to  listen  to  the 
perpetual  vapid  gossip  of  Oakbury,  where  the  new 
shawl  of  a  tradesman's  wife,  or  the  rose-colored  ribbons 
of  a  housemaid,  furnished  matter  for  half  an  hour's  dis- 
•ussion.  But  Rosamond  had,  like  the  princesses  in 
Tairy  tales,  "  a  great  deal  of  wit,"  which  in  fairy-tale 
phraseology  signifies  quickness  of  apprehension ;  she 
felt  that  the  gay  world  was  nothing  to  her,  and  that  the 
kind,  feeling  Miss  Colyton  w^as  worth  the  whole  of  "  her 
dear  five  hundred  friends ; "  nay,  she  did  justice  to  a 
much  lower  grade  of  good  will,  and  called  to  mind  that 
while  Mrs.  Everett  deemed  no  tea  party  complete  with- 
out "  Rosamond  and  her  music  book,"  and  Louisa  Mul- 
lins  arranged  the  proceedings  of  every  picnic  excursion 
with  the  view  of  "  a  nice  point  for  Rosamond  to  sketch 
from,"  the  Lady  Claras  and  Lady  Emilys,  who  had 
vowed  eternal  friendship  for  her,  were  now  quite  ob- 
livious of  her  existence ;  and  if  they  thought  of  her 
Binging  and  sketching  at  all,  it  would  only  be  to  deplore 
that  she  did  both  in  too  commonplace  a  style  to  compete 
with  any  of  the  accomplished  prodigies  who  embellish 
the  governess  column  of  the  Times.  I  have,  however, 
a  still  better  reason  to  give  for  Rosamond's  increasinjr 


THE  jeweller's  DAUGHTER.  8i 

satisfaction  with  her  situation ;  she  could  not  but  leel 
that  while  the  lover  selected  for  her  by  her  father  was 
taking  a  continental  tour,  and  the  lover  encouraged  by 
herself  was  paying  his  addresses  to  the  deformed  daugh- 
ter of  a  rich  city  mercer,  Colyton,  the  kind  companion 
and  protector  of  her  childhood,  whom  she  had  treated 
with  disdain  during  her  prosperity,  —  Colyton  was  un- 
wearying in  his  endeavors  to  amuse  and  interest  her, 
and  to  prevent  her  mind  from  dwelling  on  her  recent 
trials. 

Colyton  was  a  daily  visitor  at  the  house  of  his  aunt ; 
he  lent  books  to  Rosamond,  sang  duets  with  her,  accom- 
panied her  in  her  walks,  and  predicted  that  brighter 
days  were  yet  in  store  for  her  dear  father.  Thus  wore 
away  the  winter;  the  letter  that  Rosamond  received 
from  her  father  was  written  in  a  tranquil  spirit,  and  the 
arrangement  of  his  affairs  was,  he  said,  advancing  quite 
as  satisfactorily  as  he  had  any  right  to  expect  it  would  do. 

Spring  came.  Miss  Colyton  was  sitting  alone,  when 
Miss  Margaretta  Sutton  was  announced. 

"  I  wonder  where  Rosamond  is,'*  said  the  visitor,  look- 
ing round. 

"  She  will  not  be  at  home  for  some  time,**  replied 
Miss  Colyton  ;  "  she  has  gone  to  take  a  long  walk  with 
my  nephew." 

"  I  thought  so,"  said  !Miss  Margaretta,  forgetting  that 


82  THE  jeweller's  daughter. 

her  "  thinking  so  "  was  rather  at  variance  with  her  pro 
viously  expressed  wonder  on  the  subject  of  the  "  where- 
about "  of  Rosamond.  "  I  must  say,  Anne,  that  I  am 
quite  surprised  at  your  blindness." 

"  In  what  respect  ?  "  quietly  inquired  JSIiss  Colyton. 

"  Why,  in  regard  to  the  attachment  so  evidently  form- 
ing, or  formed,  between  your  nephew  and  Rosamond 
Sutton,"  answered  Miss  Margaretta. 

"  Who  told  you  that  I  was  blind  to  it  ?  "  asked  Miss 
Colyton,  smiling. 

"  My  dear  Anne,"  exclaimed  Miss  Margaretta, "  surely 
you  cannot  but  recollect  that  Rosamond  Sutton  has  no 
independent  fortune,  and  that  a  bankrupt's  daughter 
has  no  claim  to  a  shilling." 

"  I  am  perfectly  aware  of  both  these  facts,"  replied 
Miss  Colyton.  "  My  nephew  has  a  small  income ;  and 
as  it  is  enough  for  the  moderate  comforts  of  life,  and 
as  he  will  inherit  my  little  property  at  my  death,  I 
think  that,  if  the  young  people  are  satisfied  with  their 
prospects,  we  have  no  right  to  interfere  with  their 
choice." 

"  But  if  Colyton  thinks  he  can  afford  to  marry  with- 
out money,"  persisted  Miss  Margaretta,  "  why  cannot  he 
fix  on  Louisa  Mullins,  who  is  just  as  nearly  related  to 
him  as  Rosamond  Sutton,  and  whom  he  has  seen  almost 
every  day  from  her  childhood  ?  " 


THE  JEWELLER  3  DAUGHTER.         S0 

"  Simply  because  he  loves  the  one  and  not  the  other," 
answered  Miss  Colyton. 

"  And  how  do  you  know  that  James  Sutton  will  ap- 
prove of  the  way  in  which  you  have  disposed  of  his 
daughter's  hand  without  consulting  him  ? "  asked  Miss 
Margaretta,  in  a  slightly  raised  key. 

"  I  have  not  done  so  without  consulting  him,"  Miss 
Colyton   replied. 

"Then  depend  upon  it,"  said  Miss  Margaretta,  tri 
umphantly,  "  he  will  immediately  summon  his  daughter 
back  to  London.  Do  you  think  he  will  allow  her  to 
throw  herself  away  upon  a  poor  curate?  She  is  a 
beautiful  girl,  (it  w^as  the  first  time  that  Miss  IVIargaretta 
had  ever  allowed  her  to  be  so,)  and  I  dare  say  he  will 
manage  to  get  an  outfit  and  an  introduction  for  her,  and 
export  her  to  India." 

"  I  do  not  think  he  had  ever  any  design  of  that  kind," 
said  Miss  Colyton ;  "  at  all  events,  if  he  had,  he  has 
cheerfully  relinquished  it,  and  given  his  ready  consent 
to  his  daughter's  marriage  with  my  nephew." 

"  And  do  you  really  mean  to  say,"  exclaimed  the  an- 
gry Miss  Margaretta,  "  that  a  marriage  is  arranged  to 
take  place  between  two  of  my  relations,  and  that  I  am 
the  last  person  to  be  informed  of  it  ?  " 

"  I  mean  to  say  no  such  thing,"  replied  Miss  Colyton ; 
"  Mr.  Sutton's  consent  only  arrived  this  morning ;  and 


84  THE   JEWELLER*S    DAUGHTER. 

therefore,  Margaretta,  you  are  the  first  person  to  be 
informed  of  the  intended  marriage,  as  indeed  I  had  de- 
termined you  should  be  at  all  events  ;  and  had  you  not 
happened  to  call  upon  me,  I  should  have  been  a  visitor 
at  your  house  in  the  course  of  an  hour  for  the  purpose 
of  giving  you  the  information." 

Miss  Colyton  was  never  m  the  habit  of  telling  polite 
untruths ;  she  really  meant  what  she  had  just  said ;  she 
knew  that  whoever  received  the  first  tidings  of  the  pro- 
posed marriage  would  disseminate  it  through  Oakbury 
before  sunset ;  and,  as  she  thought  that  Miss  Margaretta 
was  the  person  whose  good  will  would  be  the  most  dif- 
ficult to  conciliate,  she  had  resolved  to  bestow  upon  her 
the  empty  honor  of  being  the  original  proclaimer  of  the 
news,  judging  rightly  that  nothing  would  so  much  tend 
to  disarm  all  unamiable  feelings  on  her  part.  The  event 
proved  the  wisdom  of  the  course  she  had  pursued. 
Miss  Margaretta  took  a  hasty  leave  of  her,  hoping  that 
after  all  the  affair  would  turn  out  better  than  she  had 
expected,  and  paid  a  round  of  visits  at  Oakbury  to  tell 
the  news,  saying  that  it  was  the  particular  wish  of  her 
dear  Anne  Colyton  that  she  should  do  so,  and  hinting 
that  she  had  all  along  been  in  the  confidence  of  the 
young  couple,  and  that,  as  their  hearts  seemed  set  upon 
the  matter,  she  did  not  know  but  that  it  was  better  to 
let  them  take  their  own  wa^'.     All  received  the  commu* 


THE  jeweller's  DAUGHTER.         85 

nication  in  very  good  part.  Louisa  MuUins  had  lately 
been  staying  with  a  friend  tolerably  well  married,  who 
was  some  years  older  and  much  plainer  than  herself, 
and  had  consequently  risen  so  highly  in  her  own  estima- 
tion that  she  openly  declared  she  would  never  marry 
without  fifty  pounds  a  year  pin  money  and  a  one-horse 
chaise.  Therefore  she  was  perfectly  well  satisfied  to 
relinquish  all  chance  of  Colyton,  and  turned  her  thoughts 
with  much  amiability  towards  working  an  ottoman  for 
his  destined  bride.  Mrs.  Everett  resolved  to  make  the 
young  people  a  present  of  a  silver  cake  basket  and 
plenty  of  good  advice ;  others  were  no  less  gracious ; 
and  the  same  set  of  people  who  a  year  ago  had  secretly 
envied  and  disliked  Rosamond  and  her  father  were 
now  well  pleased  to  befriend  and  assist  the  former  and 
even  expressed  their  hopes  that  the  latter  would  "  now 
and  then  come  to  see  his  daughter  and  take  a  peep  at 
his  old  friends." 

«  »  «  «  « 

A  month  had  elapsed,  and  Rosamond's  wedding  day 
was  approaching;  she  was  staying  in  London,  at  the 
request  of  her  father,  who  wished  daily  to  see  her,  but 
could  not  spare  time  from  his  affairs  to  visit  her  at  Oak- 
bury.  He  had  procured  her  an  invitation  from  the  wife 
of  his  soUcitor,  Mr.  Benwell.  Rosamond  had  never 
Been  Mr.  Benwell  above  two  or  three  times,  and  had 
8 


86       THE  jeweller's  daughter. 

never  seen  Mrs.  Benwell  at  all ;  she  was  a  plain,  com* 
monplace  person,  and  lived  in  a  small  house  in  a  street 
near  Bloomsbury  Square;  but  Rosamond  had  been 
quite  cured  of  fine  ladjism  during  her  stay  at  Oakbury, 
and  made  herself  so  very  agreeable  that  Mrs.  Benwell 
quite  regretted  that  her  wedding  could  not  be  deferred 
for  a  month  longer.  Rosamond,  indeed,  was  perfectly 
happy  ;  her  lover  came  several  times  to  London  to  see 
her ;  and  her  father  was  not  only  looking  remarkably 
well,  but  was  in  excellent  spirits  ;  in  fact,  he,  like  her- 
self, seemed  improved  by  adversity ;  there  was  no  longer 
the  least  vestige  of  the  "  three-tailed  bashaw "  about 
him ;  there  were  no  allusions  to  noblemen,  no  talk  about 
eligible  matches.  He  inquired  kindly  and  repeatedly 
about  his  Oakbury  friends  and  relations ;  and  to  hi3 
son-in-law  elect  his  manner  was  every  thing  that  could 
be  wished  —  cordial,  confiding,  and  affectionate. 

The  wedding  day  arrived.  Rosamond,  attired  with 
simple  elegance,  was  given  away  by  her  father.  The 
Benwell  family  alone  were  present,  Mrs.  Benwell's  niece 
ofliciating  as  bridesmaid ;  and  they  returned  to  a  quiet 
little  collation  at  the  Bloomsbury  domicile.  The  young 
couple,  who  lacked  money  for  the  usual  honeymoon  in- 
dulgence of  a  continental  trip,  had  thought  of  immedi- 
ately returning  home ;  but  Sutton  had  laughingly  de- 
clared that  he  must  retain  possession  ot  them  for  a  few 


THE  JEWELLER*S  DAUGHTER.         87 

dajs,  and  that,  if  they  resigned  themselves  to  his 
guidance,  he  would  venture  to  say  that  their  time  should 
pass  pleasantly.  They  willingly  acceded  to  his  request, 
anticipating  a  sojourn  of  two  or  three  days  at  one  of  the 
villages  near  London.  Leave  was  taken  of  the  friend- 
ly Benwells ;  and  the  bride  was  handed  by  her  father 
to  the  carriage  waiting  at  the  door,  which  proved  to  be 
not  the  hired  conveyance  which  had  taken  them  to 
church,  but  a  new  and  very  elegant  barouche.  No  re- 
mark was  made  by  any  one ;  but  both  the  bride  and 
bridegroom  felt  rather  uncomfortable  at  the  unexpected 
splendor  of  their  transit.  Each  formed  a  different  opin- 
ion on  the  subject.  Rosamond  concluded  that  her  father 
had  borrowed  the  carriage  "  for  that  day  only "  from 
one  of  his  great  friends  who  had  not  quite  thrown  him 
off ;  and  she  was  sorry  that  he  should  have  laid  himself 
under  such  an  obhgation.  Colyton,  on  the  other  hand, 
remembering  all  he  had  heard  of  the  magnificent  tastes 
of  his  father-in-law,  was  apprehensive  that,  having  saved 
a  few  hundreds  out  of  the  wreck  of  his  property,  he  was 
only  anxious  immediately  to  dissipate  them. 

The  coachman,  wlio  appeared  to  have  received  liis 
orders,  drove  to  a  house  in  Hyde  Park  Gardens ;  here 
Sutton  alighted,  kindly  welcomed  his  daughter  and  son- 
m-law,  and  led  them  up  stairs  to  a  tastefully-furnished 
suite  of  drawing  rooms. 


68  THE    JEWELL  Ell's    DAUGHTER. 

"  Has  this  house  been  lent  to  you  by  a  friend,  my  dear 
father?"  inquired  the  astonished  bride. 

"  No,  Rosamond,"  replied  her  father.  "  I  have  not  a 
friend  in  the  world  who  is  likely  to  lend  me  so  much  as 
a  fire  screen  or  a  hearth  brush ;  and,  happily,  I  can  very 
well  dispense  with  then*  good  offices.  This  house  is  my 
own,  and  therefore  yours ;  may  you  both  hve  long  and 
happily  in  it ! " 

"  But  my  dear  sir,"  suggested  his  son-in-law, "  is  there 
not  some  mistake?  It  is  so  short  a  time  since  your 
fortunes  were  under  a  cloud  that " 

"  You  mean,  I  suppose,"  said  the  jeweller,  "  to  say 
that,  as  I  have  recently  become  a  bankrupt,  I  cannot 
fairly  possess  the  means  of  hving  in  such  a  house  as 
this.  Under  ordinary  circumstances  such  might  be  the 
case ;  but  mine  is  a  bankruptcy  of  a  peculiar  descrip- 
tion." 

Again  did  the  young  couple  draw  a  different  conclu- 
sion from  Sutton's  speech.  Rosamond  imagined  that 
her  father  must  be  speaking  in  jest,  not  knowing  what 
peculiar  kind  of  bankruptcy  that  could  be  which  would 
enable  its  victim  to  live  in  Hyde  Park  Gardens.  Colv- 
ton  was  more  enlightened  on  the  subject ;  he  had  heard 
of  fraudulent  bankruptcies,  where  the  supposed  sufferer 
came  out  of  his  troubles  a  great  deal  richer  than  before 
he  got  into  them  ;  but  it  grieved  him  to  think  that  Ros* 


THE  jeweller's  DAUGHTER.         89 

ainond's  father  should  be  one  of  those,  and  it  gi-eatly 
surprised  him  that  he  should  have  the  hardihood  to 
avow  it. 

"  I  will  explain  the  mystery  of  my  bankiiiptey  in  as 
few  words  as  possible,"  said  Sutton.  "  A  year  ago  I  was 
very  desirous  of  quitting  business  and  investing  my  prop- 
erty in  the  funds ;  but  the  enormous  sums  owing  to  me 
seemed  to  defy  all  my  powers  to  call  them  in;  they 
would  not  *  come  when  I  did  call  for  them.'  You  have 
heard,  Colytoi,  that  my  brilliant  tiaras  sparkle  in  the 
flowing  tresses  of  duchesses  and  marchionesses,  and  that 
my  bracelets  and  rings  encircle  the  slender  wrists  and 
snowy  fingers  of  countless  court  maidens ;  and  possibly 
you  in  your  happy  ignorance  may  imagine  that  these 
valuables  were  all  paid  for  on  delivery,  or  at  least  that 
a  settlement  took  place  eveiy  Christmas.  Not  so ;  there 
is  many  a  Lady  Townley  in  the  present  day  who  loses 
at  cards  the  money  destined  to  defer  her  just  debts. 
How  could  I  dun  my  fiiir  creditors  when  I  and  my 
daughter  were  on  visiting  terms  with  them  ?  Could  I 
threaten  the  Marchioness  of  Arlingford  with  arrest 
when  her  nephew  was  inditing  love  sonnets  to  Rosa- 
mond? Could  I  declare  that  I  would  expose  Lady 
Emily  Tracey  to  the  world  when  T  was  anxiously  en- 
deavoring to  promote  a  marriage  between  my  daughter 
and  her  brother?  I  detennir.ed  on  a  fictitious  bank 
8* 


90  THE  jeweller's    DAUGHTER. 

mptcy ;  my  assignees  have  gathered  in  all  that  is  OTving 
to  nie ;  my  affairs  are  completely  settled  ;  and  I  am  at 
this  moment,  in  mercantile  phrase,  '  as  good  a  man  as 
ever.'  " 

"  But,  my  dear  father,"  exclaimed  Rosamond,  "  why 
did  you  not  admit  a  few  friends  into  your  secret  ?  " 

"Because,"  said  her  father,  "it  would  then  have 
speedily  ceased  to  be  any  secret  at  all,  and  because, 
Rosamond,  I  had  a  double  view  in  my  bankruptcy.  I 
wished  not  only  to  get  my  accounts  paid,  but  to  try  the 
truth  of  my  professing  friends  and  your  fair-speaking 
lovers.  I  had  always  been  haunted  by  the  fear  that  you 
would  be  married  rather  for  your  fortune  than  yourself. 
Here  was  an  opportunity  of  testing  the  disinterestedness 
of  all  the  young  men  who  had  said,  in  the  words  of  the 
old  song  in  Lionel  and  Clarissa,  *  O,  talk  not  to  me  of 
the  wealth  she  possesses  ! '  The  experiment  succeeded ; 
and  I  had  cause  to  feel  so  much  displeased  with  my 
friends  that  I  began  to  feel  very  much  displeased  with 
myself,  and  to  think  that  1  had  done  unwisely  in  hfting 
my  daughter  and  myself  out  of  the  sphere  in  which  we 
had  been  accustomed  to  move  for  the  sake  of  associating 
with  people  who  merely  tolerated  us  on  account  of  our 
wealth,  and  who  cast  us  off  directly  Ave  ceased  to  possess 
it.  Then  I  thought  of  Oakbury  and  of  the  many  happy 
days  I  had  enjoyed  there  during  the  lifetime  of  my  wife, 


THE  jeweller's    DAUGHTEK.  91 

when  every  body  believed  our  means  to  be  very  moder- 
at3  and  sought  our  society  solely  for  the  sake  of  our- 
selves. Just  then  came  in  the  kindest  of  letters  from 
the  excellent  Anne  Colyton ;  and  most  happy  was  I, 
Rosamond,  to  reflect  that  you  would  have  the  advantage 
of  residing  for  a  few  months  under  the  roof  of  so  admi- 
rable a  person  ;  for,  while  I  was  blaming  myself  a  great 
deal,  I  could  not  help  blaming  you  a  little  and  thinking 
that  you  had  been  the  spoiled  child  of  prosperity,  and 
that  a  short  season  in  the  school  of  adversity  would  do 
you  a  great  deal  of  good.  JSIy  wishes  have  been 
promptly  fulfilled  ;  not  only  have  you  gained  an  invalu- 
able friend  and  many  well  wishers  by  your  visit  to  Oak- 
bury,  but  a  true  and  disinterested  lover.  You  will 
pardon  me,  my  dear  Colyton,  for  trying  your  disinter- 
estedness to  the  very  last  point.  I  have  heard  of  in- 
stances where  the  lovers  of  penniless  beauties  thought 
better  of  a  foolish  business  even  at  the  altar." 

"  Not  when  so  cliarming  a  bride  as  Rosamond  was 
standing  at  it,  I  conjecture,"  replied  the  young  man. 
"But  surely,  my  dear  sir,  you  might  have  imparted 
your  secret  to  your  daughter." 

"  My  good  young  friend,"  said  the  jeweller,  "  you  en- 
tertain a  very  high  opinion  of  Rosamond,  and  so  do  I 
out  still  she  is  but  a  woman ;  and  it  has  always  been  my 
opinion  that  there  is  only  one  secret  which  a  woman  can 


92       THE  jeweller's  daughter. 

be  trusted  to  keep  —  that  of  her  own  age."  (At  the 
time  this  conversation  occurred  the  new  census  had  not 
taken  place,  otherwise  Sutton  would  have  seen  women 
deprived  of  the  power  of  keeping  even  that  solitary- 
secret.)  "  Besides,"  lie  continued,  "  I  wished  to  try 
Rosamond's  stability  as  well  as  your  own.  She  believed 
that  *  her  face  was  her  fortune ;  *  and  I  imagined  she 
might  consider  that  so  very  pretty  a  face  entitled  her  to 
expect  no  trifling  fortune  in  exchange.  And  now,  hav- 
ing finished  all  my  explanations,  lot  me  again  welcome 
you  to  the  house  which  I  hope  you  will  share  with  me. 
You  must  give  up  your  country  curacy,  Colyton ;  you 
will  find  that  the  gay  world  stands  much  in  need  of  your 
admonitions,  and  I  trust  that  it  will  profit  by  them.  In 
two  or  three  days  we  will  all  visit  Oakbury ;  and  you 
shall  tell  your  dear  aunt  in  person  of  your  changed 
prospectr  " 

And  they  did  visit  Oakbury ;  and  great  was  the  bustle 
and  the  excitement  of  that  happy  little  town  when  the 
important  news  was  circulated  through  it.  Sutton  was 
full  of  kindness  and  cordiality  to  his  old  friends ;  and 
not  only  did  he  warmly  invite  them  to  come  and  see 
him  in  London,  but  he  made  purchase  of  a  pretty  house 
and  grounds,  about  half  a  mile  from  Oakbury,  to  which 
he  promised  that  himself,  his  daughter,  and  her  husband 
would  pay  frequent  visits,  if  Miss  Colyton  would  favor 


THE  jeweller's  DAUGHTER.         93 

him  by  taking  up  her  resideace  there.  This  she  agreed 
fo  do ;  nor  was  she  the  only  pei*son  who  experienced 
the  hberality  of  their  old  townsman.  Every  silver  cake 
basket,  worked  ottoman,  china  jar,  or  papier  mache 
portfolio  that  had  been  given  to  the  curate's  aflfianced 
bride  was  returned  to  the  donor  in  presents  of  large 
value ;  and  these  were  all  received  with  pleasure,  be- 
cause they  were  not  given  in  a  spirit  of  patronage  and 
ostentation,  but  were  offered  as  tokens  of  friendship  and 
good  will. 

Five  years  have  now  elapsed ;  Colyton  is  a  celebrat- 
ed preacher  at  a  London  chapel,  and  has,  as  his  father- 
in-law  predicted,  been  the  cause  of  great  benefit  to  many 
of  his  hearers.  His  wife  and  himself  live  happily  with 
the  worthy  jeweller;  and  two  children  are  added  to  the 
family  party,  who,  to  the  great  delight  of  Miss  Colyton, 
pass  much  of  their  time  at  the  house  at  Oakbury.  As 
for  the  Oakbury  people,  they  talk  more  about  the  But- 
tons than  ever ;  but  they  do  it  with  a  far  different  feel- 
ing ;  the  stories  of  intimacy  and  regard  which  they  were 
formerly  compelled  to  improvise  have  now  become  mat- 
ter of  fact ;  and  the  envy  and  dissatisfaction  lurking  in 
their  minds  have  been  exchanged  for  the  truest  esteem 
and  regard.  Only  one  evil  has  resulted  from  the  course 
that  Sutton  has  pursued  —  the  Oakbury  people,  never 
\  cry  bright  and  quickwitted,  have  become  thoroughly 


94      THE  jeweller's  daughter. 

confused  and  mystified  in  their  ideas  touching  the  stabil- 
ity or  instability  of  men  of  business.  Formerly,  if  they 
saw  the  name  of  any  one  they  knew  in  the  list  of  bank- 
rupts, they  used  to  talk  of  him  with  pity  ;  but  now  they 
conceive  it  probable  that  he  is  only  perpetrating  a  play- 
ful ruse  on  the  "  Fair  of  May  Fair,"  and  that,  when  all 
his  accounts  have  been  duly  settled  and  made  over  to 
him,  he  will,  like  Sutton,  emerge  from  the  temporary 
clouds  that  surrounded  him.  "Whether  such  events  are 
frequent  I  am  not  prepared  to  say ;  but  the  one  in  ques- 
tion has  certainly  had  the  happiest  effects  in  improving 
the  character  as  well  as  the  fortune  of  the  jeweller,  and 
in  gaining  a  sincere  and  disinterested  lover  for  th«» 
"jeweller's  daughter." 


STANZAS. 


BY    iDA   TREVANION. 


O,  DEEM  not,  when  the  turf  is  spread 

O'er  one  long  prized  and  justly  dear, 
The  flowers  of  love  and  friendship  shed 

Their  latest  fragrance  on  the  bier ; 
There  is  a  soul-bom  sympathy 

No  tears  may  quench  or  time  remove, 
Which  joins  in  mystic  unit}' 

The  fond  below  and  blest  above. 

As  bounds  the  bark  which  breezes  sweep, 

While  waters  coldly  close  around, 
Till  of  her  pathway  o'er  the  deep 

The  sinning  track  no  more  is  found, 
Thus  floating  down  Death's  silent  tide 

The  best  and  loveliest  of  eai-th 
Fleet  as  that  white-winged  pageant  glide 

And  leave  no  record  of  their  worth. 

(90) 


STANZAS. 

But  as  the  bark,  though  lost  to  view, 

*Mid  scowl  of  storm  or  calm  of  rest, 
Takes  the  lone  heart's  affection  ti-ue, 

Like  holy  sunshine,  on  her  breast, 
So,  when  our  idols  pass  from  s-ight, 

Our  love,  if  pure,  knows  not  decay  ; 
It  triumphs  o'er  the  grave's  dark  night, 

And  mounts  with  them  to  realms  of  day. 


Death,  who  divides  all  outward  ties. 

Dissevers  not  heart  linked  to  heart ; 
He  does  but  guard  love's  sacred  prize 

From  earthly  chance  and  change  apart ; 
Making  it  higher,  holier  seem. 

More  chastely  pure,  more  heavenly  fair; 
As  the  ice,  closing  o'er  the  stream. 

Keeps  baser  things  from  mingling  there. 


THE  VOYAGE  OF  THE  FANCIES. 

BT    CHARLES    H.   HITCHIN6S. 

A  CREW  of  bright  Fancies,  one  fair  sunny  day, 

In  the  bark  of  the  Muses  towards  heaven  sped  their 

way. 
Love  and  "Wit  were  on  board,  and  a  prosperous  gale 
(A  good  gift  of  Apollo)  set  right  in  their  saiL 

Away  through  the  air  full  of  frolic  they  sped, 
Dreary  earth  left  below,  happy  skies  overhead ; 
While  the  gay  songs  of  mirth  echoed  blithe  through  the 

spheres. 
And  they  well  nigh  forgot  the  sad  world  and  its  tears. 

They  had  spirits  about  them ;  for  when  travelled  Love 

But  the  Angel  of  Sorrow  sate  brooding  above  ? 

And  the  Guardian  of  Earth  watched  the  bales  thai 

were  stored 
Full  of  fair  human  interests  for  ballast  on  board. 
9  (97) 


98         THE  VOYAGE  OF  THE  FANCIES. 

Up  away,  up  away,  through  the  clear  sunny  blue. 
With  the  wind  still  in  favor,  the  compass  still  true. 
Not  a  cloud  to  o'ershade  them,  or  shut  from  their  sight 
The  blest  haven  they  sought  with  its  turrets  of  light. 

They  went  bounding  along,  tUl  impatient  at  length 

Of  the  ballast  that  curbed  the  vrild  force  in  its  strength. 

And  as  eager  as  lightning  to  press  to  their  mark. 

Ere  the  night  should  close  in  with  its  shrouding  of  dark, 

**  What  are  these,"  cried  a  Fancy,  "  retarding  our  sails  ?  " 
As  he  spumed  'neath  his  foot  the  poor  earth-laden  bales. 
"We  should  speed  twice  as   swift  were  these  dead 

weights  away  — 
Sordid  clods  of  corruption,  vile  compounds  of  clay  I " 

To  the  clearance  they  went.     Scarce  a  sand  grain  had 

run 
In  the  glass  of  old  Time  ere  their  labor  was  done ; 
And  away  'gan  the  bark  like  an  arroTV  to  fly. 
But  all  aimless  and  vague,  through  thi*  waste  of  the  sky. 

For  the  ballastless  bark  by  a  tempest  was  crossed, 
And  the  rudder  was  broken,  the  compass  was  lost ; 
And  a  heaven-darted  bolt  of  the  lightning  af  kst 
Those  Fancies  to  earthward  avengingly  cast 


THE  VOTAGE  OF  THE  FANCIES.         99 

For  think  not  that  earthless  the  Fancy  can  soar 
To  the  reahns  of  pure  spirit,  remembering  no  more 
The  dull  world  and  its  creatures,  but,  glorious  and  bright^ 
Hurry  on  its  swift  course  to  the  regions  of  light. 

But  if  heavenward  thou  sail,  take  as  ballast  the  woe 
And  the  sufferings  and  pains  of  thy  fellows  below ; 
For  the  sole  song  of  earth  that  to  heaven  may  aspire 
Is  the  song  that  is  hallowed  by  sympathy's  fire. 


OLIVIA. 


TWELFTH    NIGHT. 


Vio,  Good  madam,  let  me  see  your  face. 

Oil.  Have  you  any  commission  from  your  lord  to 
negotiate  with  my  face  ?  You  are  now  out  of  your 
text ;  but  we  will  draw  the  curtain  and  show  you  the 
picture. 

Look  you,  sir,  such  a  one  I  was  this  present : 
Is't  not  well  done  ?  [  Unveiling, 

Vio.  Excellently  done,  if  God  did  all. 

Oli.  'Tis  in  grain,  sir ;  'twill  endure  wind  and  weather. 

Vio.  'Tis  beauty  truly  blent,  whose  red  and  white 
Nature's  own  sweet  and  cunning  hand  laid  on. 
.Lady,  you  are  the  crudest  she  alive 
If  you  will  lead  these  graces  to  the  grave, 
And  leave  the  world  no  copy. 

Oli.  O  sir,  I  will  not  be  so  hardhearted ;  I  will  give 
out  divers  schedules  of  my  beauty;  it  shall  be  inven- 

rioo) 


OLIVIA.  101 

toned;  and  every  particle  and  utensil  labelled  to  my 
will :  as  items,  two  lips  indifferent  red ;  item,,  two  gray 
eyes,  with  lids  to  them ;  item,  one  neck,  one  chin,  and 
60  forth.     Were  you  sent  hither  to  praise  me? 
9* 


THE   STORY  OF  ANGELIQUE. 

A  TRUE  INCIDKNT. 

BY    GERALDINE    E.   JEWSBURY. 

•  Visiting  the  sins  of  the  fathers  upon  the  children  unto  the  third 
and  fourth  generation."  —  Book  of  Exodus. 

This  is  not,  as  at  first  sight  it  might  appear,  an  arbi- 
trary threat  of  vengeance  —  a  declaration  of  malice 
instead  of  justice ;  it  is  simply  a  declaration  that  the 
everlasting  laws  of  cause  and  effect  can  never  be  turned 
aside.  There  is  no.escape  possible  from  an  action  that 
has  once  been  done. 

That  the  innocent  suffer  with  the  guilty,  often  instead 
of  them,  is  not  injustice,  but  only  a  portion  of  the  immu- 
table law  by  which  every  action  brings  its  own  conse- 
quences, as  a  tree  bears  fruit  after  its  kind.  There  is 
no  chapter  of  human  life  more  tragically  sorrowful 
than  that  which  relates  the  sufferings  of  those  who  are 
victims  to  the  deeds  of  others  ;  although  few,  be  it  said, 

(102) 


THE    STORY    OF   ANGELlQUE.  103 

are  so  personally  guiltless  as  not  to  have  quickened  or 
aggravated  their  sufferings  by  some  error  of  their  own. 

The  following  story,  which  is  in  all  respects  true, 
bears  upon  this  subject ;  it  was  related  to  us  some  years 
ago  by  an  old  physician  since  dead.  He  was  an  excel- 
lent man,  and  remarkable  for  his  skiU  and  sagacity  in 
treating  all  phases  of  mental  alienation  and  insanity. 
He  was  one  of  the  first  who  endeavored  to  strip  these 
terrible  afflictions  of  the  mysterious,  almost  supernatural 
dread  with  which  they  were  invested,  and  to  bring  back 
the  poor  sufferers  within  the  confines  of  humanity,  from 
which  they  had  been  banished  by  the  fear  and  cruelty 
their  malady  inspired.  When  a  young  man  he  resided 
for  some  time  in  Paris,  for  the  sake  of  attending  the 
lectures  of  the  Ecole  de  Medicine  and  visiting  the  hos- 
pitals; and  it  was  during  that  period  he  became  ac- 
quainted with  the  following  history,  which  we  give,  as 
nearly  as  we  can  recollect,  in  his  own  words  :  — 

"  One  day,"  said  he,  "  I  was  walking  in  the  court  of 
the  Salp^triere  along  with  one  of  the  physicians  attached 
to  the  hospital ;  I  was  surprised  to  see  a  young  and 
very  beautiful  girl  standing  near  a  group  of  infirm, 
crone-like  old  women,  such  as  are  the  chief  inmates  of 
this  hospital.  She  walked  with  an  air  of  listless  ab- 
straction along  the  paved  court,  upon  which  the  after- 
noon sun  was  pouring  its  fatigued  and  dusty  rays  ;  from 


104  THE    STORY    OF    ANGELIQUE. 

fime  to  time  she  quickened  her  pace  and  exhibited  a 
'•estless  and  angry  impatience  as  her  attention  was 
roused  by  the  conversation  of  those  around  her. 

"  *  What  is  she  doing  here  ? '  I  asked  of  my  compan- 
"on,  who,  as  I  told  you,  was  one  of  the  physicians  at- 
tached to  the  hospital. 

"  *  Ah,'  replied  he,  *  that  lovely  creature  is  one  of  my 
insane  patients.' 

"  '  She  looks  more  like  an  angel  than  an  insane  pa- 
tient,' I  replied  with  enthusiasm.  She  wore  a  white 
dress ;  her  rich,  brown  hair  fell  in  natural  curls  over 
her  shoulders  and  was  confined  round  her  head  by  a 
blue  fillet ;  her  hands  hung  loosely  before  her ;  and,  as 
she  walked,  she  was  constantly  twisting  her  fingers. 

"  *  Ah,  poor  child ! '  said  my  companion,  whose  eyes 
followed  her  with  a  look  of  compassion ;  *  she  has  been 
quite  mad  for  more  than  two  years  past.  She  is  never 
easy  unless  she  is  moving  about ;  and,  as  she  is  quite 
harmless,  I  leave  her  at  Hberty  to  go  where  she  chooses 
about  the  house  and  grounds.  She  seldom,  however, 
comes  into  this  court,  for  she  dislikes  to  see  persons 
uround  her.  Did  you  ever  behold  a  face  so  unutterably 
sad?' 

"  *  No ;  and  I  pray  God  that  I  never  may  again. 

"  As  we  spoke  the  young  girl  seated  herself  upon  the 
teps  of  the  fountain  that  was  in  the  midst  of  the  court. 


THE    STORY    OF   ANGELIQUE.  105 

gazing  vacantly  upon  the  splashing  water ;  and,  except 
for  the  picking  motion  of  her  fingers,  she  was  quiet  as 
a  stone. 

"  *  She  cannot  be  yet  twenty.  What  sorrow  can  have 
caused  all  this  ?  * 

"  *  It  is  about  as  miserable  a  story,*  replied  my  com- 
panion, *  as  any  I  have  known  in  the  whole  course  of 
my  five  and  thirty  years*  practice.  If  you  care  to  hear 
it  I  will  tell  you ;  but  I  must  first  persuade  Angelique 
to  go  in  doors.  This  sun  is  far  too  powerful  for  her  to 
be  sitting  under  the  full  blaze  of  it  as  she  is  now  doing.* 

"  He  approached  and  took  her  hand ;  she  arose  like 
one  walking  in  her  sleep  and  accompanied  him  into  the 
house. 

**  *  Now,*  said  he,  when  he  returned  to  me,  *  let  us  go 
into  my  sitting  room ;  there  is  a  good  hour  before  lec- 
ture, and  I  will  tell  you  the  history  of  Angelique.* 

"  My  friend  had  rooms  assigned  to  him  in  another 
part  of  the  hospital,  although  he  only  resided  in  them 
occasionally.  A  wrinkled  old  woman,  who  looked  as  if 
she  had  stepped  out  of  a  Dutch  picture,  opened  the  door 
for  us.  She  had  formerly  been  one  of  his  patients ;  he 
had  performed  a  difl&cult  and  complicated  operation 
upon  her,  which  was  one  of  the  miracles  of  surgical  skill 
and  intrepidity  of  that  day.  It  had  been  successful; 
and  the  poor  creature,  who  was  a  widow,  had  attached 


106  THE   STORY    OF   ANGELIQIHE. 

herself  to  him.  He  had  given  her  the  post  of  concierge 
to  his  apartments  in  the  hospital ;  and  day  and  night 
they  were  kept  in  readiness  for  him.  She  lived  in  a 
little  room  at  the  head  of  the  stairs ;  and  there  she  sat 
with  her  knitting  listening  like  a  dog  for  the  footsteps 
of  her  masters.  She  did  not  speak  as  we  entered ;  her 
awe  and  admiration  kept  her  dumb ;  but  there  was  a 
look  of  such  intense  affection  and  delight  when  she  saw 
him  as  I  can  never  forget,  Her  hand  trembled  so  much 
as  she  attempted  to  unlock  the  door  that  he  took  the 
key  from  her  and  began  to  praise  the  comfort  and  order 
in  which  she  kept  the  place.  It  was  a  dehciously  cool 
and  shady  room  ;  every  thing  was  in  the  exactest  order 
—  the  books  on  the  shelves  round  the  room,  the  cases 
of  instruments  arranged  on  the  table,  and  writing  mate- 
rials laid  ready  for  use.  The  white  muslin  curtains 
looked  like  ball  dresses.  A  glass  filled  with  fresh  flow- 
ers stood  in  the  window.  The  bed  room  adjoining  was 
equally  luxurious  in  its  freshness  and  delicate  cleanli- 
ness. *  Who  would  imagine  that  so  much  misery  and 
suffering  were  only  separated  from  us  by  a  brick  wall?" 
I  exclaimed,  looking  round. 

"  *  Ah,  yes.  Old  Marguerite  is  my  guardian  angel^ 
and  keeps  all  evil  sights  and  sounds  out  of  these  rooms. 
Nobody  knows  but  myself  all  the  good  she  does.' 

"  The   old  woman's  face  grew  radiant  under  these 


THE    STORY    OF   ANGELIQUE.  107 

words ;  and  after  setting  down  a  pitcher  of  iced  water, 
as  there  was  nothing  else  to  be  done,  she  retired. 

"  *  That  old  creature  deserves  to  be  canonized,'  said 
the  doctor,  looking  after  her.  '  I  will  tell  you  her  histo- 
ry  some  day.  She  has  attached  herself  to  me,  and  I 
suppose  considers  me  her  master ;  but  there  is  not  a 
patient  inside  these  walls  but  has  reason  to  be  thankful 
for  her  presence.  Poor,  old,  infirm  as  she  is,  without  a 
penny  or  a  friend  in  the  world,  she  makes  her  life  a 
blessing  to  all  who  come  within  her  reach.  What  she 
continues  to  accomplish  with  so  little  makes  it  wonder- 
ful how  others,  possessing  every  facility  of  fortune  and 
position,  contrive  to  do  nothing  but  make  a  heavy  bur- 
den to  themselves  of  their  own  advantages.  The  very 
sight  of  her,  when  I  am  weary  and  dispirited,  is  worth 
a  hundred  a  year  to  me.' 

"  *  Well,'  replied  I,  *  you  shall  tell  me  about  old  Mar- 
guerite another  day ;  but  what  of  Angelique  ? ' 

"  *  Ah,*  said  he,  shaking  his  head  and  smiling, '  it  is 
easy  to  see  you  are  a  young  man.  It  is  true  enough, 
however,  you  came  here  to  listen  to  the  sorrows  of 
Angelique  and  not  to  the  virtues  of  my  dear  old  wo- 
man ;  but  there  is  a  connection  between  them,  as  you 
will  see.' 

"  The  doctor  placed  his  watch  on  the  table,  that  he 
might  not  forget  the  time  for  his  lecture,  and  began :  — 


108  THE    STORY    OP  ANGELIQUB. 

"Angellque  belongs  to  a  good  family  who  reside 
near  Beauvais.  Her  mother  is  even  now  more  lovely 
than  her  daughter ;  she  was  married  when  very  young 
to  an  officer  of  artillery,  one  of  my  oldest  friends.  I 
was  present  at  the  marriage.  He  was  much  older  than 
his  wife.  His  good  looks,  such  as  they  were,  had  been 
pretty  well  eflfaced  by  the  hardships  of  active  service. 
He  had,  amongst  other  things,  served  in  the  Russian 
campaign.  His  hair  was  gray  and  his  face  stern  and 
wrinkled,  though  scarcely  arrived  at  the  term  of  middle 
age.  Under  a  cold,  undemonstrative  manner  he  carried 
one  of  the  noblest  and  most  generous  hearts  in  the 
world.  His  words  were  few;  but  all  who  knew  him 
felt  that  one  word  of  regard  or  commendation  from  him 
meant  as  much  as  the  passionate  protestations  of  others. 
To  many  of  his  friends  it  seemed  an  ill-assorted  match ; 
but  he  was  deeply  attached  to  the  beautiful  and  wilful 
young  creature ;  whilst  she,  whether  from  the  instinct 
which  taught  her  to  appreciate  his  noble  qualities  or 
attracted  by  the  difficulty  of  inspiring  a  romantic  pas- 
sion in  one  so  calm  and  self-possessed  I  know  not ;  but 
she  certainly  had  exerted  all  her  fascinations  to  attract 
him,  and  refused  a  brilliant  proposal  of  marriage  from 
another  quarter.  Unhappily,  when  once  married,  the 
discrepancy  between  their  characters  was  not  long  in 
making  itself  felt.     He  a  calm,  straightforward,  and 


THE    STORY    OF   ANGELIQUE.  109 

essentially  matter-of-fact  man,  who,  having  once  told  her 
that  he  loved  her  more  than  any  thing  in  the  world,  and 
reposing  in  the  intense  consciousness  of  his  own  affec- 
tion, would  as  soon  have  thought  of  assuring  her  every 
day  of  his  existence  as  of  repeating  protestations  of 
affection ;  whilst  she,  an  undisciplined,  passionate  crea- 
ture, with  all  the  mobile,  impressionable  organization 
of  genius,  was  constantly  made  wretched  by  his  unde- 
monstrative, silent  habits.  I  dare  say  she  really  suf- 
fered ;  for  I  was  more  than  once  called  in  to  see  her, 
and  found  her  in  a  state  of  hysterical  prostration  arising 
from  some  casual  word  or  slight  inattention  on  his  part, 
against  which  she  had  broken  herself  in  a  passion  of 
wounded  susceptibility,  and  which  distressed  him  none 
the  less  that  he  could  not  understand  how  he  had  occa- 
sioned so  much  suffering.  I  believe  in  my  heart  that 
all  women  have  a  touch  of  insanity  in  them;  they  are 
always  either  mad  or  mischievous ;  none  of  them  are  to 
be  depended  upon  for  an  hour  together,  and  they  can 
neither  guide  themselves  nor  submit  to  be  wisely  guided 
by  others.  When  Madame  de  M.  did  not  torment  her 
lusband  by  her  wounded  affection  she  persecuted  him 
with  displays  of  tenderness  which  to  a  man  of  his  dispo- 
sition must  have  been  perfect  martyrdom.  To  give  you 
dome  idea  of  her  mode  of  proceeding  I  will  tell  you  an 
instance.  Her  husband  was  military  superintendent  of 
10 


110  THE    STORY    OF   ANGELIQUE. 

the  district,  and  had  to  be  frequently  absent  from  home. 
Once  he  happened  unexpectedly  to  be  detained  beyond 
the  time  he  had  fixed  for  his  return.  A  violent  storm 
arose  that  same  evening.  Any  woman  might  have  been 
excused  feeling  some  anxiety ;  but  Madame  M.,  instead 
of  reflecting  that  her  husband  was  an  old  campaigner, 
completely  lost  what  little  sense  Nature  had  given  her, 
and  rushed  off  alone  into  the  road,  thinly  clad,  and  wan- 
dered about  for  two  hours  in  the  midst  of  the  storm, 
until  she  met  him  peaceably  returning  and  making  all 
speed  to  save  her  from  prolonged  anxiety.  Of  course 
she  was  seriously  ill  after  this  fine  exploit,  and  com- 
plained to  me  bitterly  of  her  husband's  indifference  and 
coldness  because  he  had  mildly  commented  upon  her 
imprudence  and  said, '  But,  my  dear,  supposing  the  sky 
to  have  actually  fallen  upon  me,  what  good  could  you 
have  done  by  coming  to  see  it  ? ' 

"  These  words  cost  the  poor  lady  many  bitter  tears. 
Her  unregulated  sensibility  was  the  bane  of  her  own  life 
and  the  torment  of  her  husband's ;  but  he  was  deeply 
attached  to  her,  and  supported  her  fantastic  humors  with 
a  patience  that  made  me  sometimes  wonder  whether  it 
were  a  folly  or  a  virtue.  I  suppose  it  must  have  been 
her  beauty  that  blinded  him.  It  must  be  confessed  that 
she  was  very  lovely ;  and  her  personal  beauty  was  even 
less  than  tlie  exquisite  gracefulness  of  all  her  move- 


THE    STORY    OF   ANGEHQUE.  Ill 

ments ;  and  I  suppose  tliat,  much  as  her  husband  was 
occasionally  annoyed,  his  natural  vanity  was  propitiated 
by  being  the  object  of  her  extravagant  demonstrations. 

"  He  had,  like  most  men  of  a  reserved  disposition,  a 
great  dread  of  being  made  ridiculous  and  remarkable ; 
and  he  suffered  dreadfully  from  his  wife's  theatrical 
taste  in  devising  domestic  and  dramatic  surprises  in  his 
honor.  I  remember  on  one  occasion  I  was  trepanned 
into  assisting  at  one  of  these  precious  scenes,  though  it 
was  as  a  victim ;  for  never  would  I  have  sanctioned  it 
had  I  at  all  suspected  the  event ;  but  Madame  M.  was 
full  of  stratagems  and  intrigues,  and  straightforward 
people  had  no  chance  with  her.  You  shall  hear  how  it 
happened.  I  can  laugh  at  it  now,  though  I  was  furious 
at  the  time ;  it  will  show  you  the  sort  of  woman  she 
was. 

"  I  received  an  invitation  to  spend  a  certain  day  at 
their  country  house.  I  knew  it  was  the  anniversary  of 
their  marriage,  and  thought  it  quite  natural  they  should 
have  some  reunion  to  commemorate  it.  On  the  day 
appointed  I  went,  unsuspiciously  enough,  and  found  a 
large  company  assembled,  all  more  or  less  in  fancy  rural 
dresses.  Madame  M.  herself  was  attired,  according  to 
her  notion  of  an  Arcadian  shepherdess,  in  Indian  mus- 
lin, with  a  blue  scarf  striped  with  silver  and  a  crook 
©domed  with  blue  and  silver  ribbons.     She  looked  very 


112  THE    STORY*  OF    ANGELIQUE. 

pretty  certainly ;  the  weather  was  lovely ;  and  there 
was  a  tent  in  the  garden  where  we  were  to  dine,  and  a 
band  of  music  in  picturesque  attire  to  enable  the  com- 
pany to  dance  on  the  turf  in  the  approved  Arcadian 
style.  I  looked  about  for  M.,  wondering  how  he  had 
been  prevailed  upon  to  consent  to  all  this,  when  Ma- 
dame M.  informed  me  with  a  bewitching  smile  that  it 
was  all  a  surprise,  in  honor  of  her  husband,  wliich  had 
been  got  up  during  his  absence,  and  that  he  was  ex- 
pected to  arrive  every  moment.  In  fact,  at  that  instant, 
poor  M.,  who  had  travelled  malle  poste  in  order  to  be  at 
home  to  spend  that  day  with  his  wife,  arrived  at  the 
gate :  scarcely  had  he  entered  the  garden  when  a  band 
of  children,  fantastically  dressed  and  armed  with  gar- 
lands of  flowers,  sprang  from  behind  a  thicket  of  ever- 
greens, and,  having  first  executed  a  pas  de  ballet,  con- 
cluded by  flinging  their  garlands  over  him  and  led  him 
in  their  chains  to  the  lady  of  the  fete,  the  band  mean- 
while playing  a  triumphal  march.  You  may  fancy  how 
a  man  tired  to  death  with  a  whole  night's  travelling  and 
hoping  to  come  home  to  sit  peaceably  in  his  dressing 
gown  and  slippers  would  feel  at  being  made  the  centre 
of  such  an  exhibition ;  but  the  worst  was  yet  to  come 
He  had  not  recovered  from  the  confusion  of  such  an 
unexpected  reception  when  we  were  summoned  to  din- 
ner.   A  species  of  triumphal  chair  had  been  erected  for 


THE    STORY    OF   ANGELIQUE.  118 

him,  as  the  hero  of  the  feast,  decorated  with  garlands 
and  devices  in  flowers,  as,  indeed,  was  the  whole  inte- 
rior of  the  tent.  That  nothing  might  be  wanting  to 
complete  the  foolery,  a  party  of  her  friends  who  were 
in  the  secret  sang  a  chorus  in  compliment  of  the  occa- 
sion as  he  took  his  seat.  I  was  furious  at  having  been 
betrayed  into  sanctioning  such  impertinent  folly  by  my 
presence ;  but  I  confess  I  trembled  lest  M.  should  be 
provoked  into  some  extremity  —  I  hardly  ventured  to 
look  at  him.  However,  he  resigned  himself  with  the 
most  angelic  goodness,  and  only  said,  with  a  slight  per- 
ceptible annoyance,  *  Adrienne  —  Adrienne  !  this  is  too 
much.     How  could  you  do  so  ? ' 

"  Shortly  after  this  precious  exhibition  I  was  obliged 
to  leave  Beauvais.  I  accompanied  a  scientific  expedi- 
tion despatched  to  South  Africa  by  the  French  govern- 
ment; after  which  I  continued  my  travels  into  other 
parts  of  the  world.  I  was  absent  many  years.  On  my 
return  my  first  care  was  of  course  to  pay  a  visit  to  my 
mother  at  Beauvais ;  she  was  then  very  old,  and  I  had 
scarcely  dared  to  hope  ever  to  see  her  again. 

"  I  found  the  M.'s  still  residing  in  their  old  house ; 
he  had  received  a  considerable  accession  of  fortune  and 
consequence,  and  been  employed  by  government  on 
several  occasions  in  various  missions.  He  was  now 
approaching  the  evening  of  his  days  —  a  fine  specimen 
10* 


114  THE   STORY   OP  ANGELIQUE. 

of  a  veteran.  His  wife  was  still  extremely  beautiliil ; 
and  I  could  not  but  be  struck  with  the  great  improve- 
ment in  her  character  —  a  composed,  matronly  deport- 
ment had  replaced  the  fantastic  levity  of  former  days  ; 
her  manner  to  M.  was  at  once  affectionate  and  deferen- 
tial ;  and  I  fancied  I  read  the  expression  of  a  certain 
remorse  in  the  unobtrusive  and  delicate  attentions  with 
which  she  surrounded  her  husband.  However  it  might 
be,  I  thought  her  grown  quite  charming ;  and  M.  him- 
self was  of  the  same  opinion  ;  he  was,  in  truth,  the  hap- 
piest and  most  contented  of  mortals.  They  had  two 
children  —  their  own  son  Charles,  a  fine  young  fellow 
just  entered  as  student  in  the  Polytechnic  School,  and 
Angelique,  who  was  well  named,  for  I  never  beheld  so 
lovely  a  child ;  she  was  then  about  twelve  years  old  and 
realized  one's  notions  of  an  angel ;  she  was  not,  I  was 
told,  their  own  child,  but  the  daughter  of  Madame  M.'s 
C(^sin,  who  having  accompanied  her  husband,  who  was 
an  emigrant  to  England,  had  died  there,  leaving  her 
little  Angelique  an  orphan  in  a  strange  land.  Her  last 
act  was  to  write  a  letter  to  her  cousin  Madame  M., 
entreating  her  to  befriend  and  protect  her  child.  M. 
showed  me  the  letter  himself,  which  was  very  touchingly 
written ;  and  I  was  not  surprised  to  find  that  he  had 
proposed  to  adopt  the  little  Angelique  as  their  own. 
Madame  M.  had  joyfully  agreed  to  his  proposal,  and. 


THE    STORY    OF    ANGELIQUE.  115 

as  M.  expressed  it,  ^devotedly  made  a  journey  to 
England  in  the  depth  of  winter  to  fetch  her  young 
relative,  who  had  since  that  time  been  to  them  like  a 
daughter.' 

"  Nothing  seemed  to  me  more  natural ;  and  I  rejoiced 
that  Madame  M.  had  such  a  resource  and  occupation  as 
the  education  of  this  engaging  child.  Children  are  a 
woman's  guardian  angels,  and  the  training  of  them  her 
true  vocation  —  in  fact,  I  incline  to  think  the  chief  end 
for  which  she  was  sent  into  the  world.  However,  I  had 
not  much  time  to  remain  with  my  friends,  as  I  was  ap- 
pointed to  a  post  in  the  Jardin  des  Plantes  and  was 
made  one  of  the  professors  of  the  Ecole  de  Medicine, 
and  had  to  commence  my  duties  without  delay.  My 
mother  died  in  the  following  year ;  and  I  disposed  of 
pur  property  in  that  neighborhood,  so  that  for  several 
years  I  had  no  occasion  to  return  to  Beauvais.  After  I 
became  attached  to  this  hospital  my  duties  increased  so 
much  that  my  correspondence  with  my  friends  almost 
ceased.  I  heard  at  rare  intervals  from  M.,  whom  I 
regarded  with  an  affection  that  it  did  not  depend  on 
time  and  absence  to  weaken. 

"  One  day,  it  might  be  about  five  years  after  the  visit 
I  mentioned,  I  received  a  letter  from  Madame  M.,  writ- 
ten in  characters  scarcely  legible,  entreating  me  to  go 
down  at  once,  as  something  very  dreadful  had  occurred. 


116  THE    STORY    OF   ANGELIQUE. 

All  doctors  are  accustomed  to  some  exaggeration  in 
the  appeals  made  to  them ;  I  was  not  therefore  very 
much  alarmed,  though  I  determined  to  attend  the  sum- 
mons. After  delivering  the  lecture  which  was  for  that 
afternoon,  and  engaging  a  friend  to  visit  my  patients,  I 
arranged  my  business  so  as  to  be  absent  for  a  couple  of 
days  and  departed  that  same  evening  by  the  malle  poste 
for  Beauvais.  I  alighted  at  the  gate.  On  reaching  the 
house  Madame  M.  met  me  in  the  hall  with  an  aspect  of 
such  stony  despair  that  I  started  as  though  she  had 
been  a  spectre  —  so  utterly  changed  from  her  natural 
appearance,  her  face  and  lips  were  rigid  and  bloodless, 
her  eyes  fixed  and  open  like  those  of  a  sleep  walker. 

*' '  Has  any  thing  happened  to  M.  or  the  children  ? '  I 
said  hastily,  for  I  confess  her  manner  impressed  me  with 
a  fear  for  the  worst. 

"  *  Come  this  way  and  you  will  know  all.' 

"  Her  voice  sounded  strange ;  it  was  hard  and  des- 
perate and  seemed  as  if  it  came  from  an  automaton 
rather  than  a  living  woman. 

"  I  followed  her  to  a  parlor  oh  the  ground  floor,  which 
was  so  much  darkened  that  at  first  I  could  discern  noth- 
ing ;  but  after  a  few  moments  I  perceived  my  poor  M. 
lying  on  a  sofa  and  propped  up  with  cushions.  The 
windows  were  ,ppen ;  and  a  current  of  fresh  air  laden 
>vith  the  scent  of  flowers  came  into  the  room.     It  is 


THE    STORY    OF   ANGELIQUE.  117 

strange  how  at  some  moments  of  crisis  we  can  take  no- 
tice of  the  meanest  trifle. 

"  I  approached  his  couch  with  some  precaution  not  to 
startle  him ;  and  I  observed  that  his  wife  sat  down  in 
the  darkest  comer  of  the  apartment.  *I  knew  you 
were  here/  said  he  in  a  faint  voice,  *  although  no  one 
told  me  you  had  been  sent  for.     It  is  like  you  to  come.' 

"  He  spoke  in  a  confused  voice,  articulating  with  dif- 
ficulty. I  raised  a  corner  of  the  window  curtain  to  look 
at  him.  His  face  was  distorted  ;  it  was  a  stroke  of 
paralysis  which  had  taken  the  whole  of  one  side.  He 
was  beginning  to  recover  his  speech.  The  physician 
who  had  attended  him  on  his  first  seizure  arrived  —  an 
intelligent  and  skilful  man  ;  we  agreed  upon  the  course 
of  treatment  to  be  pursued ;  and  then  I  made  some  in- 
quiries into  the  particulars  of  his  illness. 

* "  I  know  nothing,'  replied  the  other  cautiously,  *  ex- 
cept that  there  is  some  family  mystery  connected  with 
it.  I  was  called  in  to  M.  three  days  ago ;  he  was  labor- 
ing under  a  congestion  of  the  brain,  the  result  of  some 
severe  mental  shock.  The  same  day  M.  Charles,  the 
son,  was  seen  to  leave  the  house  in  a  state  bordering  on 
frenzy,  and  has  not  been  seen  since.  Old  Martin  told 
me  that  there  had  been  some  dispute,  for  that  he  had 
heard  high  words  after  dinner  between  his  master  and 
mistress  and   M.  Charles,  who  were   togethpx  in  the 


118  THE   STORY   OF   ANGELIQUE. 

dining  room.  That  something  serious  has  transpired  ] 
am  convinced ;  until  three  days  ago  Monsieur  M.  waa 
in  perfect  health  —  I  saw  liim  and  conversed  with  him 
in  the  morning.' 

"  I  returned  to  the  side  of  my  friend,  my  mind  filled 
with  painful  anxiety.  At  the  door  of  the  room  I  met 
AngeUque,  who  was  watching  for  me ;  she  grasped  my 
arm  and  said  hurriedly,  *  They  will  not  let  me  see  papa ; 
no  one  will  tell  me  what  is  the  matter ;  and  Charles  left 
home  three  days  since  without  speaking  to  me.  I  saw 
him  as  he  went  out  and  tried  to  stop  him ;  but  he  flung 
me  off  with  a  dreadful  look  as  if  I  were  an  evil  being, 
and  he  has  never  returned.  Mamma  has  become  so 
strange  I  am  afraid  to  approach  her.  What  is  the 
matter?  Why  may  I  not  go  into  that  room  and  see 
papa  ? ' 

"  She  was  evidently  under  great  nervous  excitement, 
poor  child,  and  there  was  an  expression  in  her  eye  that 
I  did  not  like ;  her  dress  was  in  disorder,  and  it  was 
evident  she  had  not  slept  for  a  long  time.  I  endeavored 
to  calm  her  as  well  as  I  could,  and  tried  to  induce  her 
to  lie  do^vn,  with  the  promise  that  she  should  see  her 
father  as  soon  as  he  could  be  permitted  to  see  any  one. 
She  was  in  such  a  state  of  agitation  and  excitement  that 
she  was  quite  unfit  to  be  left  alone,  and  there  seemed 
DO  one  to  take  charge  of  her ;  the  whole  house  had  the 


THE   STORY   OF   ANGELIQUE.  119 

air  of  being  struck  by  lightning  and  abandoned,  for  not 
a  soul  was  to  be  seen.  However,  the  domestics  were 
only  indulging  themselves  in  gossiping  conjectures  both 
about  what  had  happened  and  what  was  likely  to  occur 
after  the  fashion  of  that  class  who  love  the  excitement 
of  calamity.  I  succeeded  in  breaking  up  the  conclave, 
who  were  standing  openmouthed  in  the  court  yard  to 
hear  the  news  just  brought  in  by  a  countryman  that 
Master  Charles  had  been  seen  marching  with  a  company 
of  conscripts  who  were  being  conveyed  to  Marseilles. 
I  despatched  one  of  the  maids  to  Angelique,  with  strict 
orders  not  to  leave  her  for  a  moment,  and  then  once 
more  returned  to  the  room  where  M.  was  lying.  ]Ma- 
dame  still  sat  crouched  in  the  darkest  part  of  the  room, 
and  had  not  apparently  altered  her  position  since  I  had 
left  Martin,  an  old  domestic  who  had  lived  with  his 
master  in  the  family  since  his  master's  marriage  and 
who  had  been  liis  servant  whilst  in  the  army,  sat  beside 
the  couch. 

"  M.  opened  his  eyes  as  I  approached. 

"  *  Any  news  of  my  son  ? ' 

"  I  briefly  told  him  what  I  had  just  heard. 

" '  God's  will  be  done  ! '  said  he.  *  We  have  been 
living  for  years  over  a  fearful  mine ;  and  now  it  has 
exploded.' 

"  He  lay  silent  for  a  few  moments  and  then  said,  — 


120  THE    STORY    OF   ANGELIQUE. 

"  *  Good  Martin,  leave  us  for  a  little.  /  must  speak 
whilst  I  am  able.' 

"  Martin  left  us ;  and,  having  ascertained  that  Ma- 
dame M.  was  gone  and  that  there  was  no  listener,  I 
returned  to  my  place  beside  the  couch.  M.  had  in 
great  measure  recovered  the  use  of  his  speech,  although 
his  articulation  was  still  feeble  and  indistinct.  He  was 
not  capable  of  consecutive  conversation ;  but  he  con- 
trived to  make  me  understand  the  crisis  that  had  oc- 
curred ;  and  afterwards  further  information  came  to  me 
from  another  source. 

"  It  would  seem  that  Madame  M.  had  for  a  long  time 
shown  a  strange  jealousy  of  the  family  intimacy  in  which 
her  son  Charles  and  Angelique  had  always  lived  to- 
gether, and  insisted  that  the  young  man  should  be  sent 
to  Paris  to  study  or  else  to  one  of  the  German  universi- 
ties, and  had  at  the  same  time  shown  great  anxiety  to 
negotiate  a  marriage  that  had  offered  itself  in  spite  of 
the  youth  and  disinclination  of  the  young  lady  herself. 
This  anxiety  was  attributed  by  her  husband  to  her  ma- 
ternal ambition ;  but  as  in  fact  he  had  an  opportunity 
of  placing  his  son  advantageously,  it  was  arranged  that 
Charles  should  study  for  an  *  ingenieur  des  mines.'  All 
these  difficulties  and  the  approaching  separation  prob- 
ably enlightened  the  young  people  upon  the  nature  of 
their  feelings  for  each  other.     The  day  previous  to  his 


THE    STORY    OF    ANGELIQUE.  121 

departure  from  home  Charles  formally  demanded  per- 
mission of  his  parents  to  consider  Angelique  as  his 
future  wife.  M.  had  not  the  least  objection ;  but  Ma- 
dame M.,  who  must  long  have  lived  in  constant  dread 
of  this  terrible  moment,  disclosed  to  them  that  Angelique 
was  her  owi*  cliild,  and  that  all  the  fable  about  her 
cousin's  death  had  been  invented  by  her  that  she  might 
not  be  separated  from  her  daughter. 

"  The  father  and  son  listened  without  interruption  to 
this  fearful  disclosure ;  the  son,  with  one  deep  and  bitter 
malediction  on  the  mother  who  had  brought  down  such 
misery  upon  them,  fled  from  the  house,  none  knowing 
whither  he  went ;  the  wretched  husband  fell  at  his  wife's 
feet  struck  down  with  apoplexy.  Poor  M.  was  not  in 
a  condition  to  go  into  particulars  ;  but  they  were  after- 
wards told  me  by  the  miserable  woman  herself.  It 
seems  that  on  one  occasion  M.  was  despatched  by  the 
government  on  a  mission  to  one  of  the  colonies ;  he  was 
absent  more  than  two  years,  Madame  M.  —  the  impul- 
sive, passionate,  ill-regulated  creature  I  have  described 
to  you  —  being  bitterly  pained  at  her  husband's  refusal 
to  permit  her  to  accompany  him,  which  was  in  fact  quite 
impossible.  After  suffering  bitterly  from  what  she  con- 
ceived his  indifference,  she,  partly  from  resentment  and 
partly  from  the  love  of  strong  emotions,  which  is  char* 
11 


122  THE    STORY    OF    AT^GELIQUE. 

acteristic  of  women  of  her  nature,  let  herself  go  into  a 
criminal  attachment  to  a  young  Englishman  who  had 
conceived  a  romantic  passion  for  her.  I  believe  there 
was  more  resentment  against  her  husband  than  love  to 
the  other  in  the  whole  aflfair ;  but  that  changed  nothing 
except  perhaps  to  increase  the  remorse  in  which  every 
after  moment  of  her  life  was  steeped. 

"  Her  husband,  before  his  departure,  had  furnished 
her  with  a  good  excuse  for  removing  to  Paris  ;  where 
every  mystery  is  safe  no  one  suspected  her  secret.  Her 
lover  died  in  consequence  of  the  injuries  he  received 
by  a  fall  from  his  horse  in  a  steeple  chase  which  he  had 
got  up  to  show  the  Parisians  how  people  rode  in  Eng- 
land some  months  previous  to  her  husband's  return; 
and  she  seemed  thus  guarantied  against  all  hazard  of 
discovery.  She  endeavored  by  redoubled  attention  to 
compensate  to  her  husband  the  treachery  of  which  she 
had  been  guilty ;  her  attachment  to  him  revived  with 
all  the  tenderness  of  remorse ;  and  the  unsuspecting 
generosity  with  which  he  adopted  the  little  Angelique 
touched  her  to  the  quick.  I  believe,  if  repentance  ever 
could  avail  to  expiate  crime,  that  Madame  M.  might 
have  washed  away  hers  ;  but,  as  every  action  is  a  debt 
contracted  with  everlasting  justice,  there  exists  no 
power  which  can  remit  the  consequences;  sooner  or 
later  it  must  be  met,  with  all  its  liabilities;  and  the 


THE    STORY    OF   ANGELIQUE.  123 

longer  they  are  delayed  the  more  complicated  do  they 
become. 

"  It  was  not  until  some  time  afterwards  that  I  learned 
all  these  details ;  but  I  tell  them  you  at  once  not  to 
interrupt  my  story. 

"  When  poor  M.  had  made  an  end  of  his  communi- 
cation the  tears  streamed  helplessly  from  his  eyes.  I 
pressed  the  hand  that  still  retained  its  life;  and,  although 
any  scene  of  violent  emotion  was  very  bad  for  his  bod- 
ily health,  yet  I  saw  that  the  discovery  of  a  crime  com- 
mitted against  him  so  many  years  ago  had  not  broken 
the  habit  of  affection  and  the  need  to  see  his  wife  con- 
stantly in  his  presence. 

"  He  looked  piteously  at  me.  *  What  must  I  do  ?  — 
where  is  she?* 

"With  an  instinct  which  in  times  of  emergency  is 
generally  more  trustworthy  than  any  rules  I  rose  and 
opened  the  door.  Madame  M.  sat  crouched  before 
it,  I  took  her  hand  and  led  her  without  speaking  to 
the  side  of  her  husband.  She  sank  down  beside  the 
couch  and  took  hold  of  his  poor  paralyzed  hand,  sobbing 
convulsively.  I  was  alarmed  for  the  consequences.  A 
spasm  contracted  his  features  ;  he  labored  painfully  for 
utterance.  At  length  we  distinguished  the  words,  *  God 
forgive  —  I  do.'  I  whispered  to  Madame  M.  to  be 
calm,  and  administered  some  medicine  to  my    poor 


124  THE    STORY    OF   ANGELIQUE. 

friend,  and  then  withdrew — leaving  the  wife  restored  to 
her  right  of  watching  beside  him.  The  effects  of  this 
agitation  were  not  so  bad  as  you  might  expect ;  the  calm 
to  the  patient's  mind  overbalanced  the  danger  to  his 
bodily  health ;  and  when  I  left  I  was  not  without  hopes 
that  he  might  be  able  to  move  about  again.  Angelique 
was  the  one  whose  condition  the  most  excited  my  fears  ; 
and  I  gave  the  medical  man  in  attendance  many  charges 
about  her.  I  was  obliged  to  return  to  my  own  duties  in 
Paris,  and  could  not  again  visit  my  friend ;  but  I  con- 
tinued to  receive  satisfactory  accounts  of  them.  It  might 
be  about  six  months  after  my  former  visit  when  I  re- 
ceived a  second  summons,  more  urgent  th^n  the  first. 
I  threw  aside  every  other  engagement  and  went.  The 
fatal  consequences  of  Madame  M.'s  crime  were  not  yet 
exhausted. 

"  No  direct  intelligence  had  ever  been  received  from 
the  unhappy  Charles;  but  the  news  brought  by  the 
countryman  of  his  embarkation  at  Marseilles  with  a 
company  of  recruits  for  Algeria  had  been  confinned. 
A  few  days  previously  a  letter  from  the  colonel  of  that 
regiment  had  arrived,  containing  a  cross  of  the  order  of 
*  military  merit '  and  a  few  lines  saying  that  M.  Charles 
M.  had  been  mortally  wounded  in  an  expedition  against 
an  Arab  encampment,  and  on  his  death  bed  had  revealed 
his  name  and  station  to  his  ofl&cer,  charging  him  to  send 


THE   STORY   OP   ANGELIQDE.  125 

w'ord  to  his  father  and  to  beg  his  mother  to  forgive  the 
words  he  sjjoke  when  he  left  her  presence.  The  colonel 
added  many  praises  of  the  good  conduct  and  gallantry 
of  the  young  man,  who  had  seemed  to  court  the  death 
of  honor  he  had  found.  The  cross  enclosed  was  the 
one  with  which  he  had  been  decorated  on  the  field.  But 
the  unhappy  woman  had  not  yet  drained  the  cup  of 
retribution. 

"  Angelique  was  up  stairs,  lying  ill  of  a  brain  fever, 
and  her  uneasiness  gave  us  but  too  clearly  to  know  that 
by  some  deplorable  fatality  she  had  become  acquainted 
with  the  wretched  secret  of  her  relationship  to  her  be- 
trothed lover.  Hitherto  she  had  only  fancied  that  the 
obstacles  that  had  driven  Charles  from  home  arose  solely 
from  the  ambition  of  his  parents,  who  desired  him  to 
form  some  higher  connection ;  and  she  had  comforted 
herself  with  hopes  and  dreams  of  better  things,  after 
the  manner  of  the  young.  The  tidings  of  his  death, 
and  the  knowledge  of  the  terrible  secret  of  her  own 
birth,  had  proved  too  much  for  the  poor  young  creature's 
brain.  She  recovered  from  the  fever,  but  it  was  only 
to  live  in  a  state  of  prolonged  mania. 

"  As  I  could  not  remain  to  watch  her  case  as  I  de- 
sired, I  prevailed  upon  Madame  M.  to  allow  her  to  be 
removed  to  Paris,  that  she  might  be  constantly  under 
my  care.  I  obtained  admission  for  her  into  this  hoa- 
11* 


126  THE    STOllY    OF    ANGELlQUls. 

pital  J  and  that  good  old  woman  you  saw  when  you  first 
entered  has  been  her  unwearied  and  devoted  attendant. 
I  knew  I  could  depend  upon  her  fidelity  as  well  as  upon 
her  devotion  to  my  will ;  and,  once  acquainted  with  the 
cause  of  Angelique's  affliction,  she  has  seconded  my 
efforts  with  an  intelligent  sympathy  that  has  done  more 
for  her  than  my  skill. 

"  Of  late  I  have  entertained  sanguine  hopes  that  An- 
gelique  will  recover.  At  first  she  used  to  be  in  a  con- 
stant state  of  revery :  at  times  she  would  shed  tears, 
and  speak  of  *  him,^  but  without  designating  him  by  any 
name  ;  and  then  she  would  clear  up  into  those  smiles  of 
insanity  which  are  so  painful  to  witness  ;  but  she  never 
seemed  conscious  of  any  thing  passing  around  her.  Of 
late  there  has  been  a  change ;  she  begins  to  notice  ob^ 
jects  like  a  child,  but  only  for  a  short  time ;  and  any 
attempt  to  prolong  her  attention  irritates  her,  though  she 
is  never  violent.  Once  or  twice  within  the  last  fortnight 
she  has  had  what  may  be  called  intervals  of  intelligence, 
and  her  mind  seems  to  be  gradually  recovering  its 
strength,  gathering  itself  together.  It  will  be  some 
time  yet  before  the  cure  is  effected ;  but  I  repeat,  that  I 
have  sanguine  hopes  of  success. 

"  But  now,"  said  he,  looking  at  his  watch,  "  we  are 
seven  minutes  after  our  time ;  the  gentlemen  will  have 
become  impatient  —  so  come  along," 


THE    STOKY    OF    ANGELIQUE.  127 

I  followed  my  friend  into  the  lecture  theatre,  after 
which  came  other  duties  and  employments.  I  had  no 
opportunity  of  again  seeing  the  doctor,  except  at  lecture 
time,  for  many  weeks  afterwards ;  neither,  though  I 
often  walked  in  the  court  of  the  hospital,  did  I  ever 
again  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  fair  creature  whose  story 
had  so  painfully  interested  me. 

I  was  suddenly  recalled  to  England  by  the  dangerous 
illness  of  my  father,  and  I  did  not  return  to  Paris  to 
finish  my  courses  until  the  following  autumn. 

My  first  care  was  to  pay  a  visit  to  my  old  friend  and 
master  at  the  Salpetriere,  to  enter  myself  upon  his  class. 
I  found  liim  in  his  old  room  at  the  hospital,  as  kind- 
hearted  and  as  much  occupied  as  ever ;  and  old  Mar- 
guerite was  still  sitting  at  the  head  of  the  stairs,  knitting 
her  eternal  stocking. 

He  received  me  with  cordiality ;  and,  after  replying 
to  all  his  questions  about  England  as  well  as  I  was  able, 
I  inquired  whether  Mile.  Angelique  was  still  in  the 
Salpetriere  ? 

"  No,"  replied  he  ;  "  I  am  happy  to  say  that  my  hopes 
did  not  deceive  me  ;  Angelique  has  now  returned  home, 
quite  cured.  She  will  never  again  be  gay  and  light- 
hearted  as  of  old ;  for  she  still  recalls  the  past.  But  she 
learned  from  my  dear  old  Marguerite  the  secret  of  re- 
signing herself  to  the  will  of  the  Highest  —  a  wisdom 


128  THE    STORY    OF   ANGELIQUE. 

that  would  heal  many  broken  hearts  if  it  were  more 
practised.  With  Angelique  it  is  not  a  theory,  nor  an 
enthusiastic  exaltation ;  it  is  a  quiet,  modest  principle, 
which  enables  her  to  accept  without  complaint  the  heavy 
sorrow  that  has  blotted  out  her  youth. 

"  With  her  restored  reason  she  has  taken  up  all  her 
old  habits  of  occupation,  and  assists  her  mother  with  the 
most  aflfectionate  devotedness  in  the  care  of  her  adopted 
father;  for  my  poor  friend  still  Uves,  though  now  in 
the  last  stage  of  weakness.  She  never  recurs  to  the 
past  by  the  most  distant  allusion.  I  have  generally  ob- 
served that,  when  a  patient  recovers  from  alienation  of 
mind,  it  is  with  a  higher  tone  of  thought  and  principle 
than  they  manifested  previously;  whatever  previous 
good  there  was  in  them  is  generally  strengthened  and 
matured ;  but  I  never  saw  the  fact  so  strongly  marked  as 
in  the  case  of  Angelique.  All  levity,  all  consciousness 
or  thought  of  self,  seems  to  have  been  purged  from  her 
nature.  She  goes  about  like  a  being  set  apart  from  the 
world,  with  a  sweet,  tranquil  seriousness,  that  it  is  like 
the  presence  of  an  angeL" 


THE   WAYSIDE    BROOK. 

BT    MRS.    ABDY. 

The  Wayside  Brook,  —  how  clear  and  bright 

Its  waters  glittered  to  the  sight ! 

It  lay  beneath  a  leafy  shade, 

Where  gladsome  birds  sweet  music  made. 

How  often  there  we  loved  to  stay. 

Watching  the  waning  hours  of  day, 

And  then  a  silent  farewell  took, 

And  parted  by  the  Wayside  Brook ! 

We  meet  in  courtly  circles  now  ; 
Gems  sparkle  on  thy  queenly  brow ; 
And  I  may  claim  an  honored  stand 
Amid  the  gifted  of  the  land. 
We  are  not  as  we  used  to  be. 
We  boast  not  spirits  light  and  free. 
As  when  the  flowery  path  we  took 
That  led  us  to  the  Wayside  Brook. 

,129) 


130  THE    WAYSIDE    BROOK. 

Yet,  *mid  our  proud,  triumphant  track, 
A  word  can  bring  past  pleasures  back ; 
We  turn  from  scenes  of  dazzling  show ; 
Around  us  fragrant  breezes  blow ; 
The  birds  a  choral  welcome  sing ; 
The  dancing  waters  gayly  spring ; 
And,  still  the  same  in  heart  and  look, 
We  linger  by  the  Wayside  Brook. 


TO  THE  FRIEND  OF  MY  HEART. 

BY    ALICIA   JANE    O^NEILL. 

•'Celestial  Happiness,  whene'er  she  stoops 
To  visit  earth,  one  shrine  the  goddess  finds, 
And  one  alone,  to  make  her  sweet  amends 
For  absent  heaven  —  the  bosom  of  a  friend."— YouNO. 

**  Thus  blessed,  I  draw  a  picture  of  that  bliss." — Cowpkb. 

Five  years !     And  can  it  five  years  be 

Since  we  set  forth  together 
To  sail  o'er  life's  uncertain  sea 

Through  life's  uncertain  weather  ? 

How  bright,  how  brief,  how  beautiful 

Those  fond  five  years  appear, 
As  ^ack  through  all  their  homes  I  glance— 

Back  with  a  smile  and  teai* ;  — 

(131) 


132  TO    THE    FRIEND    OF   MY   HEART. 

^   A  smile  of  grateful  tenderness 
That  I  have  found  in  thee 
All  that  my  early  dreams  believed 
A  fond  heart  friend  should  be ;  — 

A  smile  of  joy  that  worldly  cares 
Have  cast  no  blighting  chill 

Upon  this  heart,  so  glad  of  old, 
So  glad  and  ardent  still ;  — 

A  tear  lest  coming  years  should  bring 
Their  changes  on  my  lot, 

And  I  for  treasures  now  possessed 
Should  seek,  and  find  them  not ! 

But  down,  distrustful,  trembling  heart  I 
Down  with  thy  doubts  and  fears ! 

The  God  who  blessed  thy  joys  to  thee 
Can  likewise  kiss  thy  tears. 

Then  let  me  sing  serenely  on 
Of  precious  years  gone  by  — 

Those  beautiful,  fond  years  Fve  spent 
Beneath  thy  loving  eye. 


#:• 


TO  THE  FRIEND  OP  MY  HEART.       133 

Yes,  beautiful !  though  tempests  met 

Our  shattered  bark,  and  we 
Were  driven  by  adverse  gales  across 

A  bleak  and  troubled  sea. 

But  thou  hadst  me,  and  I  had  thee 

And,  leaning  on  thy  breast, 
I  prayed  away  my  cares  and  fears 

And  blessed  my  place  of  rest. 

O,  blessed  be  the  God  who  gave 

That  place  of  rest  to  me, 
And  kept  us  strong  in  faith  and  hope 

When  tempests  swept  the  sea ;  — 

Who  never  left  us  nor  forsook. 

But  led  us  safe  to  land  — 
Poor  shipwrecked  mariners  forlorn, 

But  brave  in  heart  and  hand ! 

Strong  in  the  faith  "  that  looks  above," 

Our  perils  sank  us  not ; 
Brave  in  the  strength  of  mutual  love. 

We  bless  our  happy  lot 
12 


w 


A  STROLL  BY  THE  RIVER  AMSTEL, 
AMSTERDAM. 

BY    MRS.    WHITE. 

Few  of  the  Batavian  poets,  from  old  Jacob  Cats  to 
Da  Costa,  but  have  bestowed  a  lyric  on  the  "  brimming 
Amstel,"  which,  after  winding  its  mazj  way  between 
green  prairies  to  its  confluence  with  the  Y,*  pours  itself 
out  commingled  with  that  river  from  between  the  horns 
of  the  port  at  Amsterdam  into  the  Zuyder  Zee. ' 

It  was  a  lovely  morning  that  on  which,  lured  by  the 
poet's  sweet  praises,  we  determined  on  a  pilgrimage  to 
the  village  which  bears  its  name,  and,  with  no  other 
companions  than  our  pencil  and  note  book,  set  forth  on 
the  treching  path  for  our  destination. 

The  canals  and  rivers,  as  all  the  world  knows,  are 
the  great  highways  of  Holland,  and  the  Amstel  a  very 
principal  one ;  so  that  every  now  and  then  curiously- 

•  Pronounced  eye. 

(134) 


A    STROLL    BY   THE    RIVER    AMSTEL.  135 

shaped  craft,  white  sailed  and  highly  varnished,  with 
perchance  a  group  of  Frisian  women  seated  on  deck, 
their  close-fitting  headgear  of  gold  or  silver  plates  glit- 
tering like  cavalry  helmets  in  the  sun,  made  pictures  in 
sailing  by ;  and  not  less  curious  and  novel  was  the  ap- 
pearance of  the  men,  who,  mounted  sideways  on  their 
horses,  with  rings  in  their  ears  and  pointed  klompens  * 
on,  rode  slowly  past,  sometimes  towing  huge  canal  boats 
as  heavily  loaded  as  the  barges  on  the  Thames,  and  at 
others  smaller  vessels  with  gilt  fiddleheads  and  sides 
that  shone  like  polished  mahogany,  with  long  golden- 
spotted  pennants  flying,  or  painted  flags  with  full-sized 
figures  of  the  Good  Vrow,  or  Three  Zisters,  &c.,  under 
whose  names  they  sailed. 

Every  little  while  —  for  it  was  market  day  in  the 
metropohs  —  prams  laden  with  flowers  or  filled  with 
corbels  of  raspberries  and  red  currants,  with  a  fringe 
of  green  leaves  laid  round  them,  and  larger  boats,  flat 
bottomed  and  shallow,  some  heaped  with  wooden  shoes, 
the  manufacture  of  a  distant  hamlet,  some  with  vegeta- 
bles from  far-off  gardens,  and  others  freighted  with  the 
useful  turf,  stole  down  upon  their  way  to  Amsterdam. 

Even  the  vehicles  upon  the  roads  were  quaint  looking 
and  oddly  shaped  as  the  boats  upon  the  river:  some 

•  Wooden  shoes  so  called. 


13G  A    STROLL    BT   THE    RIVER    AMSTKL. 

with  high-carved  backs  painted  green,  with  red  foliage ; 
others  varaished  and  gilded ;  while  the  more  stylish 
looking  resembled  in  shape  the  scallop-shell  chariot  in 
which  the  sea-born  Venus  is  sometimes  represented; 
the  horses  in  every  instance  were  sleek  and  stout  limbed, 
well  fed  and  cared  for,  and  their  headgear  and  harness 
inlaid  with  the  white  shells  which  children  call  black- 
moors*  teeth,  shone  in  the  sun  as  if  inwrought  with 
silver. 

All  the  roads  in  Holland  are  bordered  with  trees,  as 
nearly  as  possible  alike  in  size  and  height,  and  which 
for  the  sake  of  the  timber  are  shorn  of  their  lower 
branches  and  made  to  look  like  overgrown  green  mush- 
rooms ;  they  are  for  the  most  part  planted  in  double 
lines ;  and  this  plan  of  depriving  them  of  their  lateral 
boughs,  while  making  them  more  valuable  as  merchan- 
dise, prevents  all  danger  of  ill-disposed  persons  lurking 
in  these  solitary  footways,  in  which,  though  high  roads, 
one  may  walk  for  half  an  hour  without  meeting  a  fel- 
low-passenger, so  much  more  popular  is  the  transit  by 
water.  Occasionally  a  young  farmer,  in  a  short-tailed 
coat,  with  a  gold  ornament  hanging  round  his  neck,  and 
a  huge  bunch  of  extinguisher-shaped  silver  seals  that 
made  him  jingle  like  a  bell  horse  as  he  walked,  lifted 
his  cap  in  passing  ;  but  for  the  greater  part  of  our  jour- 
ney we  had  the  treckpath  and  the  lime  trees,  which  at 


A    STROLL    BY    THE    RIVER    AMSTEL.  137 

this  season  —  it  was  full  midsummer  —  drop  honey  on 
the  earth  and  fill  the  air  with  their  delicious  odor,  all  to 
ourselves. 

For  some  distance  out  of  the  city  the  houses  are 
mostly  places  of  entertainment  —  Dutch  editions,  in  fact, 
of  the  suburban  public  houses  and  tea  gardens  in  the 
vicinity  of  London ;  but,  farther,  you  come  upon  the 
country  houses  of  the  citizens,  each  with  a  small  pavilion 
full  of  windows  overlooking  the  road,  and  as  a  conse- 
quence the  ditch  of  stagnant  water  which  borders  it. 
These  serve  the  purposes  of  summer  parlors  ;  and,  ear- 
ly as  it  was,  a  singing  party  was  practising  in  one  of 
them. 

In  leaving  tne  city  the  Hollander  leaves  behind  him 
his  taste  for  high  carved  roofs  and  decorated  fronts; 
and  the  generality  of  these  abodes  were  either  handsome 
square  buildings  of  modem  architecture  or  unpretending 
little  places,  all  roses,  larkspurs,  and  hortensia,  the  mere 
summer-eve  resort  of  flower-loving  citizens,  who  are  so 
fond  of  these  occasional  glimpses  of  green  fields  and 
gardens  that  those  who  cannot  aiford  a  country  house 
hire  one  of  the  pavilions  alluded  to,  and  on  Sundays  go 
there  with  their  wives  and  families  to  enjoy  their  pos- 
session and  smoke  cigars  and  drink  coffee.  This  love 
of  retirement  and  rurality  is  admirably  expressed  in  the 
Dames  of  these  suburban  residences,  which  are  either 
12  ♦ 


138  A    STROLL    BY    THE    RIVER    AMSTEL. 

painted  or  blazoned  in  golden  letters  on  the  gates ;  and 
Zomer  Lust,  (the  love  of  summer,)  Brouw  Lust,  (a 
desire  for  trees  and  fields,)  or  Stroom  in  Lommer, 
(shade  and  water,)  are  the  most  frequent  titles  of  these 
retreats. 

We  passed  one  or  two  houses  of  more  importance 
than  the  rest,  standing  in  old-fashioned  quadrangular  gar- 
dens, with  stately  walks  embowered  with  trees,  and  the 
interior  space  laid  out  in  formal  flower  beds  and  trim 
alleys,  with  statues  at  each  end,  and  a  rustic  bridge 
leaping  a  piece  of  water  in  the  centre  —  exactly  the  sort 
of  garden  that  was  in  fashion  two.  hundred  years  ago, 
and  which  Evelyn,  when  in  the  neighborhood,  was  like- 
ly to  have  visited  and  admired. 

Once  in  the  course  of  our  walk  we  came  upon  a  very 
melancholy  spot,  bearing  all  the  outward  and  visible 
signs  which  in  England  indicate  a  chancery  suit  —  the 
Zomer  Rust  (summer  rest)  of  some  rich  burgomaster 
of  former  times  reduced  to  ruins;  the  house  a  mere 
remnant,  with  half  the  materials  lying  in  heaps  about 
what  had  been  a  flowery  garden,  but  was  now  a  badly- 
ordered  potato  pround,  over  which  a  nymph  in  stone, 
whitewashed  for  cleanliness,  smiled  faintly  from  her 
moss-grown  pedestal,  as  if  she  had  grown  daft  with  deso- 
lation ;  the  trees  which  remained  were  lopped,  probably 
for  firewood,  into  the  most  miserable  plight  imaginable ; 


A    STR0L7     IJY    TPIE    RIVEK    AMSTEL.  139 

and  a  pair  of  river  gods  —  it  may  be  the  Y  and  Amstel 
— -  gazed  frowningly  with  empty  urns  upon  each  other's 
misfortune  in  the  midst  of  a  rustling  oat  field ;  while  a 
couple  of  broken-down,  had-been-ornsimental  bridges  led 
over  unseen  streams  masked  with  duckweed  and  sword- 
leaved  waterflags,  with  the  brown  maces  of  the  *^  major 
typha "  marshalling  their  choked-up  way  and  seeming 
to  whisper  through  the  loose  panicles  of  the  waving 
reeds  "  Omnia  vanites."  This  place  was  but  a  stone's 
throw  from  a  meadow  in  which  a  pointed  obelisk  of 
gray  stone  had  been  set  up  having  reference  to  the 
peace  between  Holland  and  Russia  in  1620. 

Looking  back  from  this  point  of  view,  all  that  broke 
the  smooth,  green  surface  of  the  land,  whichever  way 
the  sight  diverged,  was  the  red  or  black  glazed  roof  of 
a  farm  house  glistening  through  a  sheltering  cluster  of 
surrounding  trees,  or  the  tall  body  of  a  windmill  tower- 
ing in  the  distance  with  its  expanded  sweeps  outlined 
against  the  horizon,  or  the  white  or  tawny  sails  of  ves- 
sels, picturesque  in  their  clumsiness,  showing  themselves 
in  the  midst  of  grazing  cattle  and  green  fields. 

The  absence  of  human  bipeds  made  us  the  more  ob- 
servant of  those  "  guests  of  summer,  the  temple-haunt- 
ing martlets,"  as  Shakspeare  calls  them,  and  those  curi- 
ous little  birds,  the  water  wagtails,  of  which  there  were 
numbers  about  —  those  on  the  wing  skimming  the  air  in 


140  A    STROLL    BY   THE    RIVER    A5ISTEL. 

undulating  circles  in  the  vicinity  of  their  clay-built  nests, 
and  these,  poised  with  light  steps  and  nicely-balanced 
vibrations  on  "  the  green  mantle  of  the  stagnant  pool," 
seeking  their  insect  food  on  leaves  of  frogbit,  duckweed, 
and  the  water  plantain ;  while  every  now  and  then  those 
zoological-garden  birds  with  us,  cranes,  with  frhigy 
wings,  black  and  w^hite  bodies,  and  pink  legs  and  beak, 
would  rise  up  suddenly  from  the  river  side,  which  flows 
on  nearly  on  a  level  with  its  margin,  and  apparently 
only  prevented  from  overflowing  them  by  the  tall  and 
matted  reeds  which  line  the  shores. 

The  shelter  of  these  plants,  like  power  every  where, 
had  gathered  round  them  a  multitude  of  dependants ; 
and  the  tough-rooted  nightshade  hung  its  dark-blue  ex- 
quisitely-painted petals  beside  the  showy  clusters  of  the 
yellow  loosestrife,  whose  namesake,  with  long  purple 
spikes  of  flowers,  bent  lovingly  above  the  great  St. 
John's  wort,  the  sol  terrestris  of  the  ancient  herbalists  ; 
and,  edging  the  border  of  the  road,  upon  a  bed  of  its 
own  silky  leaflets,  the  silver  weed  disposed  its  glittering 
flowers  ;  and  laughing  pimpernel,  (a?iagallis,)  with  dot- 
ted leaves  and  scarlet  corolla,  turned  up  its  weather- 
wise,  wide-open  eye,  prophetic  of  the  day's  continued 
sunshine. 

It  is  by  such  flowery  bulwarks  that  the  Amstel  is 
restrained  within  its  banks,  and  these  themselves  sup- 


A   STROLL   BY   THE   RIVER    AMSTEL.  141 

ported  and  consolidated.  The  intervening  roots  of  trees, 
binding  and  grasping  the  earth  together,  and  the  surface 
overlaid  with  this  fibrous  progeny,  forms  an  elFective 
dike  and  gives  firmness  and  body  to  the  soil,  naturally 
so  loose  and  sandy  as  to  be  easily  washed  away. 

On  the  opposite  side  of  the  river  the  reeds  are  the 
only  impediments  to  its  encroachments  and  form  the 
boundaries  of  many  of  the  enclosures  belonging  to  the 
market  gardeners,  whose  tree-screened  houses  appear  at 
intervals  along  the  shore. 

It  is  a  sad  trial  in  this  land  of  ditches,  with  the  finest 
specimens  oi  flowering  rush  and  other  aquatic  plants, 
always  growing  on  the  opposite  side  from  that  which 
you  are  on,  that  even  the  innocent  larcenies  of  the  bot- 
anist are  prevented  by  the  intervention  of  relentless 
dikes,  which  divide  and  encompass  the  fields  in  every 
direction  and  render  it  impossible  for  any  one  less  efii- 
ciently  booted  than  a  navigator  to  get  at  them. 

In  spite  of  the  unbroken  flatness  of  the  view,  devoid 
of  all  those  salient  points  of  interest  to  which  the  tourist 
at  home  is  accustomed  —  the  woods,  the  rising  hills,  the 
stately  mansions,  which  are  never  far  apart  in  English 
landscape ;  the  rich,  meadowy  surface  of  the  surrounding 
country,  with  Paul  Potter-like  groups  of  grazing  cattle, 
sleek  skinned  and  dappled ;  the  strange  aspect  of  vessels 
tailing  here  and  there  amidst  the  fields  ;  the  passing  by 


\ 
142  A    STROLL    BY   THE    RIVER   AMSTEL. 


of  eccentric-looking  craft  upon  the  brown,  smooth  waters 
of  the  Amstel,  with  here  a  patient  fisher  in  a  moored 
'pram  and  there  a  shallow  boat  filled  with  a  party  of 
boys,  every  one  of  whom  is  smoking,  as  they  glide 
dreamily  on,  impelled  by  a  pair  of  short,  broad-bladed 
oars,  looking  like  overgrown  bulrushes  with  black 
heads,  —  all  had  at  least  the  charm  of  novelty  and 
freshness  ;  while  the  coolness  of  the  green  prairies,  the 
waving  of  the  ozier  holts,  the  sighing  of  the  gray-plumed 
reeds  as  the  soft  wind  winnowed  them,  and  the  shadows 
of  the  trees  edging  the  path,  were  as  gratefully  delicious 
as  the  aspect  of  repose  more  distantly  expressed  in  the 
interminable  extent  of  parallel  meadows. 

In  common  paths,  as  well  as  on  the  great  highway  of 
life,  it  is  pleasant  to  recall  the  memory  of  the  good  and 
the  great  who  have  trod  therein  before  us ;  and  few  ways 
are  richer  in  such  remembrances  than  those  in  the  vicini- 
ty of  Amsterdam.  Rembrandt  and  De  Keyser,  Stork  and 
Vender  Heist,  men  whose  works  have  made  their  names 
"  familiar  as  household  words,"  not  only  in  their  father- 
land but  throughout  Europe,  had  hallowed  with  their 
steps  this  very  path,  and  felt  their  spirits  lulled  and 
softened  by  the  same  tranquil  images  we  gazed  on. 
Hither  came  Spieghel  and  old  Dirk  Comhert,  drinking 
inspiration  from  the  calm  face  of  their  beloved  river,  as 
if  its  waters  had  been  those  of  Hippocrene ;  while  Von- 


A   STROLL    BY   THE    RIVER    AMSTEL.  143 

del,  th-  Milton  of  the  Netherlands,  must  surelj,  in  the 
chorot  of  Palamedes,  have  had  its  details  in  his  mind's 
eye  when  he  sang,  — 

"  Here  flourishes  the  waving  com, 
Encircled  by  the  wounding  thorn  ; 
Here  glides  a  bark  by  meadows  green, 
And  there  the  village  smoke  is  seen." 

Here  in  his  boyhood  wandered  Reiner  Anslo,  and  that 
apprentice  poet  of  Amsterdam,  Gerard  Brandt,  who  for- 
sook his  father's  shop  and  watchmaking  for  the  love  of 
poetry  and  a  poet's  daughter,  the  fair  Susannah  van 
Baerle. 

But  we  must  not  linger  with  these  masters  of  high 
art  and  sons  of  song  who  have  made  the  banks  of  the 
Amstel  River  classic  ground,  but  pursue  our  way  where 
still 

"  The  meads  red-speckled  daisies  bear. 
Whilst  maidens  milk  the  grazing  cow, 
And  peasants  toil  behind  the  plough." 

It  was  well  for  us  that  fancy  had  not  been  castle  build- 
ing, and  that  our  walk  —  for  with  us  the  "  simplest  charm 
prevails"  —  had  sufficiently  repaid  the  trouble  of  under- 
taking it ;  for  at  the  hamlet  which  made  the  point  of 
our  pilgrimage  we  found  nothing  to  requite  us  save  its 


144  A    STROLL    DY    THE    RIVKR    AMSTEL. 

pure  air  and  ultra  cleanliness.  It  was  Saturday  afternoon ; 
and  we  found  the  streets  newly  swept,  the  windows  gar- 
nished with  fresh  blinds  and  flowers ;  and  the  women  in 
their  well-scoured  klompens,  full  petticoats,  white  jack- 
ets, and  snowy  caps  seated  at  their  doors  with  quite  an 
air  of  holiday.  A  general  peace  pervaded  the  village, 
reminding  us  of  the  sweet  usage  once  customary  in  our 
own  country,  and  of  which  this  is  the  remnant,  of  mak- 
ing in  rustic  places  the  afternoon  of  the  Sabbath's  advent 
almost  as  sacred  as  the  Sabbath  itself.  The  plough 
ceased  its  labor,  the  hinds  left  their  work ;  and  it  became 
a  sort  of  half  holiday,  during  which  refreshment  and 
rest  were  all  over  the  hamlet. 

We  found  the  kirk  at  New  Amstel  a  plain,  ugly 
building,  with  a  few  pews  crowded  into  the  corners  and 
the  rest  of  the  space  left  vacant  for  chairs ;  the  floor 
paved  with  gravestones,  without  other  inscription  than 
the  name  of  the  occupant ;  the  walls,  like  all  the  Cal- 
vinistic  places  of  worship,  whitewashed ;  and  over  the 
most  lean,  dry-breasted  pulpit  to  appearance  a  gallery 
in  which  stood  a  small  hand  organ.  There  were  no 
monuments  of  any  interest,  and  none  dated  previous  to 
1758.  As  we  had  arrived  here  by  the  treckpath^  we 
resolved  to  return  by  the  opposite  side  of  the  river,  and 
left  New  Amstel,  where  we  were  told  a  number  of 
English  resided,  by  a  willow-shaded  path,  rich  with  wild 


A    STROLL    BY   THE    RIVER   AMSTEL.  145 

flowers  and  haunted  by  bees  and  butterflies.  The 
houses  on  this  side  of  the  Amstel  are  few  and  far 
between  and  of  quite  another  description  from  those  on 
the  opposite  bank,  being  simply  farms  or  peasants'  cot- 
tages, each  with  a  little  garden  at  the  side,  and  a  market 
boat,  or  pram,  drawn  up  amongst  the  reeds  on  the  shore 
or  moored  beside  a  wooden  landing-place  in  front  of  the 
dwelling,  for  the  convenience  of  crossing  the  Amstel 
and  conveying  the  produce  of  their  homesteads  to  Am- 
sterdam, where  twice  a  week  the  "  bluem  "  (flower)  and 
vegetable  markets  are  held. 

Alas  !  if  the  objects  of  view  had  been  limited  on  the 
other  side,  they  were  still  more  so  on  this,  where  the 
reeds  and  tall-growing  typha  closed  out  our  sight  of  the 
river  and  voices  sounded  in  boats  invisible  to  us  though 
not  an  oar's  length  from  the  shore. 

Except  the  passing  by  of  a  peasant  with  a  pair  of 
dazzling  white  milk  pails,  followed  by  an  assistant  vrow, 
we  had  only  the  face  of  Nature,  calm  as  Dutch  physi- 
ognomies generally  are,  to  interest  us.  Countless  oxen 
spread  themselves  over  the  wide  extent  of  rich  green 
pasture  land ;  at  long  intervals  the  thin,  gray  turf  smoke, 
indicative  of  human  habitations,  curled  up  amongst  the 
distant  tree  tops ;  while  the  aroma  of  new-mown  hay — 
and  "  good  hay,  sweet  hay,  hath  no  fellow  "  —  came  min- 
13 


146  A   STROLL    BT   THE   RIVER   AMSTEL. 

gled  with  the  tempered  redolence  of  raspberry  planta- 
tions, the  perfume  of  which  hung  about  our  path  almost 
aU  the  way  to  Amsterdam.  Moreover,  at  intervals  we 
heard  the  flutelike  whistling  of  an  orange-billed  black- 
bird, and  the  vesper  hymn  —  for  the  clouds  were  grow- 
ing gold  hued  in  the  west  —  of  a  choir  of  skylarks,  fresh 
voiced  as  if  the  day  had  only  just  begun,  and  the  chirp- 
ing of  innumerable  cicadas. 

Then  there  was  no  lack  of  wild  flowers  ;  for  here,  as 
on  the  contrary  shore,  the  gamboge-colored  lysimachia 
put  forth  its  clustered  panicles  ;  and  close  at  hand,  as  if 
to  contrast  with  its  golden  splendor,  the  stately  loose- 
strife waved  its  purple  plumes.  Then  there  was  com- 
freyy  with  its  pensile  blossoms,  and  holy  thistle,  and 
pink  willow  herb ;  while  midst  the  blue,  green  reeds  the 
greater  bindweed,  prodigal  of  ornament,  looped  up  her 
leafy  wreaths  with  snow-white  flowers,  or  threw  them 
out  like  streamers  in  the  wind,  or,  venturously  running 
round  their  roots,  crept  to  the  very  verge  of  the  brown 
Amstel,  and  lay  there,  nymphlike,  glassing  her  loveli- 
liness  in  its  smooth  depths. 

Anon  the  railway  came  in  sight,  and  the  ships'  masts, 
and  tall,  black,  Moorish  steeples,  with  windmills,  houses, 
and  the  palace  dome.  So,  crossing  the  river  in  a  mar- 
ket boat,  we   exchanged  the  flowery  solitude  of   its 


A    STROLL    BY   THE    RIVER   AMSTEL.  147 

banks  for  a  crowded  avenue  in  the  outskirts  of  Am- 
sterdam, and  entered  the  city,  as  the  sun  went  down, 
not  at  all  sorry  that  the  plainings  of  a  Dutch  poet,  on 
the  banks  of  the  Rhine,  for  the  quiet  beauties  of  his 
native  Amstel,  had  tempted  us  to  seek  them  for  our- 
selves. 


OLD  CHRISTMAS. 

BY    MRS.    NEWTON    CROSLANO 

Old  Christmas  we  know 

By  his  locks  of  snow 
And  his  crown  of  ivy  green ; 

The  lintel  we  arch 

For  his  triumph  march 
With  the  holly's  prickly  sheen 

And  its  crimson  fruit 

Like  a  winter  suit, 
And  the  mistletoe  nitched  between. 

Though  his  locks  are  white, 

His  eyes  are  as  bright 
As  a  poet's  in  ardent  youth, 

When  a  rich  voice  chimes 

To  the  fervent  rhymes 
That  glow  with  the  light  of  truth. 

(148, 


OLD    CHRISTMAS.  149 

Though  his  locks  are  pale, 

His  step  is  as  hale 
As  a  yeoman's  in  prime  of  years ; 

And  his  genial  laugh 

Is  more  glad  by  half 
Than  a  jester's  boisterous  cheers. 

But  his  stalwart  hand, 

It  holds  a  wand 
That  hath  surely  a  fairy  spell. 

When  he  waves  it  back 

On  the  Past's  worn  track. 
Where  the  silent  memories  dwell. 

Then  his  laugh  is  hushed. 

And  our  mirth  is  crushed. 
As  he  points  to  some  vacant  seat, 

While  o'er  our  souls 

The  cadence  rolls 
Of  a  voice  we  no  more  shall  greet 

And  he  asks  us  each, 
If  we  list  his  speech, 
How  the  year  gone  by  has  sped  — 
With  heart  and  mind 
13* 


160  OLD    CHRISTMAS. 

Have  we  loved  our  kind, 
And  blessings  around  us  shed  t 

For  he  hateth  strife 

And  a  selfish  life 
With  a  hatred  so  severe 

That  where  they  abide 

His  face  he  will  hide, 
And  his  joy  will  disappear. 

What  he  loves  to  do 

In  the  world's  full  view, 
Or  perchance  in  a  quiet  way, 

Is  to  link  our  hands 

In  brotherly  bands 
That  shall  never  indeed  decay. 

His  Name  shows  us  Love 

The  purest,  above 
What  mortals  can  fairly  discern ; 

In  that  one  little  word 

Every  text  may  be  heard. 
And  we  every  lesson  may  learn. 

As  he  takes  up  his  staff 
We  can  hear  the  last  laugh 


OLD    CHRISTMAS.  151 

Of  Christmas  so  honored  and  dear ; 

Thea  he  lifts  from  the  floor 

A  corpse  to  the  door, 
And  buries  the  dead  old  year. 

While  there  glides  in  the  heir 

To  the  old  years  care 
As  well  as  its  worth  and  wit ; 

Who  for  sceptre  upholds 

A  scroll's  thick  folds, 
AU  white  and  unwritten  yet. 


CLOUD  MUSINGS. 


BT    MRS    H.   J.    LEWIS. 


*•  The  Lord  shall  make  bright  clouds  and  give  them  showers  of  rain.** 

The  season  is  approaching  when  soft  showers  will 
call  from  the  brown  earth  tender  grass  and  flowers, 
weaving  a  robe  of  beauty  which  will  endure  until  the 
winds  of  autumn  revisit  the  earth.  Bright  clouds  will 
come,  noiselessly  saihng  through  the  ethereal  ocean,  and 
with  their  forms  and  hues  of  loveliness  awaken  a  wish 
in  the  thrilled  bosom  of  the  lover  of  Nature  to  be,  like 
them,  rovers  among  all  things  bright  and  beautiful. 

I  love  to  lie  down  of  a  dear  spring  day,  when  the  air 
is  fresh  and  fragrant,  and  watch  the  clouds  pile  them- 
selves in  threatening  masses  or  slowly  dissolve  and  dis- 
appear. They  move  up  from  behind  the  distant  hills, 
their  silver  edges  bright  but  not  dazzling,  borne  on  the 
wings  of  the  wind  to  the  zenith,  changing  but  still  beau- 
tiful, never  reposing,  but  seeking  the  horizon,  and  at  last 

(162) 


CLOUD    MUSINGS.  155 

disappearing,  to  be  succeeded  by  a  long  train  as  fair,  as 
fragile,  and  as  unresting  as  themselves. 

No  words  can  paint  the  wondrous,  ever-varying  beau- 
ty of  the  clouds.  They  pluck  the  rainbow's  hues  for 
their  adorning;  they  glow  sometimes  like  floods  of 
molten  gold ;  they  weave  themselves  into  fantastic 
forms ;  they  open  the  very  heart  of  their  blackness  for 
the  moon  to  shine  through  and  touch  the  whole  with 
glory ;  and,  when  the  parched  earth  calls  to  them,  they 
answer  with  blessed  and  refreshing  showers ;  and  the 
trees,  and  the  blossoms,  and  the  hearts  of  men  rejoice. 

Precious,  then,  to  the  spirit  should  be  the  assurance 
that  the  Lord  will  make  bright  clouds.  How  should 
we  miss  their  moving  shadows  from  the  uplands  and  the 
meadows  and  from  the  glittering  streams !  Did  you 
ever  stand  in  the  woods,  not  dense  enough  to  hide  the 
distant  landscape,  when  a  cloud  came  between  you  and 
the  sun,  and  all  save  the  spot  where  you  reposed  was 
flooded  with  golden  light?  If  you  have,  the  vision 
comes  back,  and  the  heart  thrill  to  which  no  words  do 
justice. 

The  showers  of  rain  in  the  spring  time  are  not  the 
least  lovely  among  the  changes  of  the  natural  world. 
They  fall  tenderly  upon  the  springing  grass  and  budding 
wild  flowers,  and  their  silvery  clashing  has  a  music  of 
its  own.     Sometimes  their  accompaniment  is  the  light- 


154  CLOUD    MUSINGS. 

ning  and  the  thunder  peal;  and  sometimes  they  fall 
before  the  very  eye  of  the  sun,  which  pierces  them  and 
renews  upon  the  clouds  the  tinted  bow  of  promise. 
They  come  in  the  morning  and  hush  the  matin  song  of 
the  birds ;  they  fall  at  noon,  and  send  the  ploughboy 
from  his  toil  to  the  protection  of  the  cot ;  they  visit  the 
parched  earth  at  eve  and  moisten  it  after  the  fervent 
kissing  of  the  sun ;  and  in  the  hushed  and  holy  night 
they  tread  softly  lest  they  awaken  the  sleepers  whom 
they  come  to  bless. 

How  the  young  leaves  and  the  blossoms  glisten  after 
their  baptism  in  the  pure  element !  The  breezes  come 
and  shake  the  heavy  drops  from  their  edges ;  and  the 
earth  takes  them  to  its  bosom  and  yields  them  back  in 
added  strength  and  beauty  to  her  floral  children.  No 
drop  of  all  the  multitudinous  showers  that  fall  is  lost  in 
the  great  laboratory  of  Nature.  Each  one  has  its  mis- 
sion and  performs  it,  though  often  wrought  out  beyond 
our  wisest  thoughts.  What  do  these  soft  showers  upon 
the  bare  mountain  tops,  where  no  flower  looks  to  them 
and  no  blade  of  grass  springs  up  for  a  covering  ?  The 
waters  lie  there  until  a  strong  wind  bears  them  away  or 
they  find  a  pathway  down  the  rugged  sides  and  join 
the  rivulets,  which  gleam  like  silver  threads  in  the 
sunshine  and  swell  the  river  sources.  Then  they  flow 
through  cultivated  fields  and  by  the  dwellings  of  the 


CLOUD   MUSINGS.  155 

happy,  till  at  last  the  hroad  ocean  takes  them  to  its 
bosom  and  thej  mingle  with  its  world  of  waters.  Are 
their  sojoumings  ended  here  ?  O,  no.  They  rise  again 
upon  the  invisible  element,  and  again  sweep  over  conti- 
nents, mountains,  and  rivers,  sometimes  pausing  over 
some  far-off  ocean  isle  and  scattering  healing  from  its 
borders,  and  sometimes  hovering  over  the  deserts,  but 
gathering  up  their  skirts  and  yielding  no  rain. 

With  all  lovely  things  and  precious  let  us  henceforth 
number  the  clouds  of  heaven.  We  shall  not  love  less 
the  shell  that  lays  its  rose  lip  beside  the  foaming  waters, 
the  beauty  and  the  music  of  the  summer  birds,  the  in- 
sects' hum  and  the  sound  of  falling  water,  the  spirit 
melody  of  the  human  voice,  the  subdued  soul  light  of 
the  eye,  "  the  infinite  magnificence "  of  the  stars,  and 
the  wild  majesty  of  the  mountain  land. 

The  dull-gray  mass  which  sometimes  limits  our  vision 
may  indeed  suggest  gloomy  thoughts  ;  but  the  mingling 
of  cloud  and  sunshine  is  all  joyous  and  beautiful.  With 
what  uninterrupted  and  graceful  motions  they  glide 
through  the  infinite  space  above  us !  How  rapturous, 
and  at  the  same  time  calming  and  elevating,  are  the 
thoughts  they  suggest  to  us !  and  from  the  fever  of  life 
the  soul  seems  to  cast  itself  upon  their  vapory  forms, 
and  flee  away  and  be  at  rest. 

Very  beautiful  are  the  morning,  the  noon,  and  the 


156  CLOUD    MUSINGS. 

evening  clouds,  with  their  background  of  serenest  blue, 
and  their  edges  of  gold,  silver,  scarlet,  or  purple. 
Sometimes  they  pile  themselves  up,  as  if  preparing  a 
throne  for  the  monarch  of  the  day,  and  again  their  rug- 
ged outline  seems  like  mountain  summits  shattered  by 
the  storms  of  centuries  ago.  Sometimes  they  are  so 
light  and  fleecy  one  would  imagine  a  breath  might  scat- 
ter them,  and  we  think  to  see  them  fade  while  we  gaze ; 
and  in  a  few  hours,  perhaps,  the  storm  king  summons 
his  forces,  and  the  hills  are  black  with  shadows,  and  the 
fierce  lightning  rends  the  vapory  mass,  and  the  heavens 
and  the  earth  seem  meeting  in  the  terrible  conflict. 
Peace,  the  burden  of  the  angels'  song,  soon  succeeds  the 
rush  of  the  storm ;  and,  as  the  darkness  rolls  away,  all 
things  seem  to  rejoice,  whether  animate  or  inanimate. 

Thanks,  from  the  depths  of  an  adoring  spirit,  that  the 
Lord  has  made  and  will  make  bright  and  beautiful 
clouds. 


DAT. 

BT    ELIZABETH   LEATHK8. 

How  beautiful  is  Day !  — 
Day  with  its  sunny  gleams, 

Its  veils  of  silver  light, 

And  shadows  on  the  streams. 

How  beautiful  is  Mom, 
When  first  its  golden  glow 

Steals  o'er  the  dewy  hills 
To  woo  the  vale  below  ! 

How  beautiful  is  Noon, 

When  radiantly  from  heaven 

The  cloudless  sun  looks  down 
On  glories  he  hath  given  ! 

How  beautiftd  is  Eve, 
Sweet  sister  of  the  Night, 

14  (W) 


158  DAT. 


With  roseate  blush  and  smile, 
And  soft,  unearthly  light ! 

All,  all  are  beautiful  — 

Mom,  Noon,  and  dewy  Eve. 

Shall  man  with  thankless  heart 
Their  loveliness  receive  ? 

Through  them  a  Father  speaks  — 
Through  them  an  all-wise  God ; 

His  book  the  starry  skies  — 
His  book  the  flowery  sod. 

His  voice  is  on  the  storm, 
His  whisper  in  the  breeze, 

His  smile  the  sunbeam  bright 
Which  resteth  on  the  trees. 

Earth  is  one  mighty  harp 

Whose  chords  are  silver  streams ; 
God  lists  its  music  soft, 

Unworthy  as  it  seems. 

Will  he  not  much  more  hear 
When  tremblingly  we  raise, 


DAT.  159 

With  loving,  childlike  hearts, 
Our  fervent  songs  of  praise  ? 

There  is  an  angel  air  — 

We  may  not  catch  it  yet ; 
These  few  poor  strains  of  ours 

In  sadder  keys  are  set. 

Yet  He  whose  master  hand 

First  tuned  creation's  lyre 
Its  feeblest  notes  can  blend 

With  those  of  heaven's  own  choir 

Then  let  the  widespread  earth 

With  hallelujahs  ring ; 
How  beautiful  is  Day  ! 

How  glorious  is  her  King  I 


LEICESTER  ABBEY. 

HENRY  VIII. 
Queen  Katherine  and  Griffith. 

Katfu    Didst  thou  not  tell  me,  Griffith,  as  thou  led'st 
me, 
That  the  great  child  of  honor,  Cardinal  Wolsey, 
"Was  dead  ? 

*  *  *  ♦  • 

Grif.    Well,  the  voice  goes,  madam : 
For  after  the  stout  earl  Northumberland 
Arrested  him  at  York,  and  brought  him  forward 
(As  a  man  sorely  tainted)  to  his  answer. 
He  fell  sick  suddenly,  and  grew  so  ill 
He  could  not  sit  his  mule. 

Kath.  Alas,  poor  man ! 

Grif,    At  last,  with  easy  roads,  he  came  to  Leicester, 
Lodged  in  the  abbey ;  where  the  reverend  abbot, 
With  all  his  convent,  honorably  received  him  ; 

(160) 


LEICESTER   ABBEY.  161 

To  whom  he  gave  these  words :  "  0  father  abbot, 
An  old  man,  broken  with  the  storms  of  state, 
Is  come  to  lay  his  weary  bones  among  ye  ; 
Give  him  a  little  earth  for  charity ! " 
So  went  to  bed,  where  eagerly  his  sickness 
Pursued  him  still ;  and  three  nights  after  this, 
About  the  hour  of  eight,  (which  he  himself 
Foretold  should  be  his  last,)  full  of  repentance, 
Continual  meditations,  tears,  and  sorrows, 
He  gave  his  honors  to  the  world  again, 
His  blessed  part  to  Heaven,  and  slept  in  peace. 
14* 


MRS.   SMITH  AND  HER   COUSIN  FANNr. 

Mrs,  Smith,  I  have  just  finished  a  new  novel,  the 
Head  of  the  Family,  which  you  must  read. 

Fanny.  By  the  author  of  Olive  and  the  Ogilvies,  is 
it  not  ? 

Mrs.  Smith.  Yes ;  but  an  advance  even  on  those 
clever  and  remarkable  novels.  I  cannot  but  believe 
that  this  young  authoress  —  for  youthful  she  is  under- 
stood to  be  —  is  destined  to  take  a  very  high  rank 
among  our  writers  of  fiction.  Her  versatility  is  sur- 
prising ;  only  the  other  day  we  were  talking  about  her 
Christmas  story,  Alice  Learmont,  a  little  book  of  a 
highly  imaginative  character,  in  which  fairyland  is 
painted  in  a  poet's  glowing  hues,  and  fairy  folk  deline- 
ated in  the  most  fantastic  manner ;  and  now  we  have 
three  volumes,  in  which,  though  a  rich  imagination  and 
the  many  graces  of  poetry  are  every  where  apparent, 
there  is  an  under  current  of  strong  sense  which  will 
please  the  mere  intellect  even  of  prosaic  readers. 

Fanny.  Is  it,  then,  a  less  emotional  work  than  Olive  ? 

(162) 


MRS.    SMITH   AND    HER    COUSIN   FANNY.  163 

Mrs.  Smith.  Nay,  I  will  not  say  that;  on  the  con- 
trary, it  deals  with  sterner  and  deeper  passions  than  the 
former  works  ;  but  the  emotion  is,  as  it  were,  reined  in 
with  a  stronger  hand,  as  if,  while  the  heai't  of  the  author 
had  expanded,  tlxe  mind  had  acquired  new  force  and 
grown  "  many  sided." 

Fanny.  Is  it  a  tragic  story  ? 

Mrs.  Smith.  Partially  so ;  but  by  the  side  of  poor 
Hachel  Armstrong's  history  there  flows  a  more  simple 
tale,  which  yet  in  its  truth  and  pathos  has  even  a  deeper 
interest.  Rachel  is  the  victim  of  a  repudiated  Scotch 
marriage.  Most  people  are  aware  that  north  of  the 
Tweed  a  very  slight  ceremony,  even  a  pubHc  avowal, 
is  enough  to  estabhsh  a  marriage ;  but  the  villain  who 
betrays  Rachel  believes  that  he  has  destroyed  every 
vestige  of  evidence,  and  after  some  changes  of  name 
and  fortune  weds  another.  Rachel  is  of  humble  birth, 
but  has  educated  herself,  possesses  talent,  and  finally  be- 
comes an  actress.  I  need  not  tell  you  how  her  love 
turns  to  vengeance  or  how  the  retribution  is  ultimately 
worked  out.  The  true  hero  of  the  book,  however,  is 
Ninian  Gra3me,  the  "head  of  the  family,"  the  elder 
brother  of  a  large  family,  who  generously  devotes  him- 
self to  his  younger  brothers  and  sisters,  perhaps  uncon- 
scious at  the  time  what  sacrifices  may  be  demanded  from 
him,  but  who  bravely  and  nobly  makes  those  sacrifices 


164    MRS.  SMITH  AND  HER  COUSIN  FANNT. 

which  a  high-wrought  sense  of  duty  demands  from 
him.  It  is  a  beautiful  ideal  of  a  man  that  is  shadowed 
forth  in  Ninian;  and  I  cannot  help  thinking  that  the 
author  has  been  thus  successful  mainly  because  she  has 
ventured  to  depict  human  nature  as  of  no  sex,  and  has 
thus  developed  in  her  hero  many  of  those  noble,  self- 
denying  qualities  which  the  world  commonly  attributes 
almost  exclusively  to  women.  It  would  be  well  if  gen- 
tlemen authors  would  take  the  hint,  and,  when  they 
are  depicting  their  Isabels  and  their  Clementinas,  not 
imagine  that  they  have  to  describe  denizens  of  some  dif- 
ferent planet;  then  we  should  be  spared  the  unreal, 
unnatural  wooden  dolls,  which  either  on  stilts  or  in  slip- 
pers shuffle  through  their  prescribed  three  volumes, 
doing  every  thing  in  the  world  except  seeming  for  one 
moment  genuine  women, 

Fanny.  You  are  severe  on  the  gentlemen  novelists, 
but  really  not  more  so  than  they  deserve. 

Mrs.  Smith.  I  am  glad  you  agree  with  me.  But  to 
return  to  the  Head  of  the  Family.  Ninian  has  a  sort 
of  ward,  Hope  Ansted,  the  daughter  of  a  runaway  bank- 
rupt,—  who  is  a  reckless  character,  sketched  with  no 
common  truth  and  force,  —  and  the  poor  girl  is  in  her 
desolation  received  into  the  family  circle  and  treated 
and  considered  as  one  of  Ninian's  sisters.  Hope  is  a 
charming  character ;  not  wonderfully  brilliant  or  amaz- 


MRS.    SMITH    AND    HER    COUSIN    FANNY.  16D 

ingly  beautiful,  but  something  much  truer  and  better  — 
a  gentle,  earnest,  affectionate  girl,  that  steals  into  Nin- 
ian's  strong,  manly  heart  before  he  is  aware.  Now 
come  the  strife  and  the  struggle ;  his  love  remains  un- 
spoken ;  and  Hope,  whose  deep  reverence  and  sisterly 
love  a  word  would  have  fanned  into  something  warmer, 
weds  another,  that  other  being  the  villain  of  the  book, 
the  sleek  gentleman  of  fortune,  the  betrayer  of  Rachel. 
I  must  read  to  you  a  scene  between  Ninian  and  his 
younger  sister  Christina,  familiarly  called  Tinie.  This 
sprightly  lassie  has  just  received  an  offer  of  marriage. 
You  will  guess  that  her  heart  is  not  quite  her  own, 
though  far  enough  from  the  keeping  of  Mr.  MacCallum. 

"  And  what  am  I  to  say  to  Mr.  MacCallum  ?*' 
"  Say  ?  Nothing !  Or  just  tell  him  that  I  never  meant 
any  thing  but  fun,  an^  I  couldn't  think  of  marrying 
him  —  a  comical,  fat,  little  goose  of  a  man.  I  wonder 
he  could  ever  fancy  such  nonsense ! "  replied  Tinie, 
whose  light  spirits  revived  in  a  brief  space  of  time. 
Strangely,  bitterly,  they  jarred  upon  her  brother. 

"  Child,"  said  he,  "  you  have  done  a  wrong  thing.  In 
this  matter,  my  heart  goes  more  with  that  poor  man 
than  it  does  with  you.  If,  instead  of  your  thoughtless 
message,  I  told  Mr.  MacCallum  you  were  not  worthy 
this  sincere  attachment  of  his,  it  would  be  nearer  the 
truth." 


166  MRS.    SMITH    AND    HER    COUSIN    FANNT. 

"  Tell  him  so  then  —  little  I  care  ! " 

"  No,  I  will  not  tell  him.  But  I  will  write  at  once, 
as  he  entreats  me;  and  something  in  his  perseverance 
touches  me,  so  that  I  shall  do  it  more  warmly  than  I 
would  have  done  a  week  ago,  when  I  thought  he  was  a 
mere  wealthy  simpleton,  beneath  the  least  notice  of  my 
sister." 

"  And  you  think  him  not  beneath  my  notice  now  ?'* 

"  No ;  because  he  offers  you  an  honest  heart,  which, 
though  refusing,  no  woman  ought  contemptuously  to 
spurn.  Child,  you  are  young ;  you  don't  know  the 
world  or  the  men  in  it  —  how  lightly  they  love,  how 
continually  they  play  and  trifle  with  girls'  hearts, — 
especially  such  gay,  sparkling  creatures  as  you,  —  and 
never  say  frankly,  as  Mr.  Mac  Galium  does,  '  I  love  you ; 
be  my  wife,  and  I  will  try  to  make  you  happy.'  And  if 
I  must  explain  all,  —  mind,  I  do  it,  not  thinking  of  my 
own  feelings  in  the  matter,  but  simply  fulfilHng  my  duty 
towards  this  honest  man,  who  has  left  his  cause  in  my 
hands,  —  I  ought  to  tell  you,  Christina,  that,  as  the  world 
goes,  this  would  be  deemed  no  unworthy  offer  for  a  giii 
entirely  without  fortune,  between  whom  and  poverty 
hangs  only  one  life  —  mine.  I  say  this  because  I  wish 
to  lay  all  sides  of  the  case  before  you,  that  at  no  after 
time  you  may  repent  of  your  decision." 

This  was  a  long,  gra\  e  speech,  the  first  of  the  kind 


MBS.    SMITH   AND    HER    COUSIN    FANNY.  167 

tiiat  Tiiiie  had  ever  heard  from  Ninian.  She  looked  up 
a  moment  to  see  if  he  were  in  earnest.  He  was,  in- 
deed ;  she  even  felt  delighted  at  the  stem  lines  of  his 
face. 

"  Would  you  be  glad,  then,  if  I  married  Eneas  Mac- 
Callum  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  never  said  that." 

"  No ;  but  you  implied  it.  I  see  how  it  is.  Miss 
Reay  was  right  in  what  she  told  me  —  I  beheve  it  all 
now,"  cried  Tinie,  the  angry  tears  rising  to  her  eyes. 

"  You  believe  what  ?  Nay,  answer  —  I  must  know  I " 
said  Ninian,  firmly,  though  his  face  flushed. 

"  That  some  of  these  days  you  would  long  to  be  rid 
of  us  ;  that  we  —  the  twins  and  myself —  ought  to 
make  haste  and  get  husbands,  ere  we  found  we  had  no 
home  in  our  brother's  house." 

"  And  you  believed  this  ?  Go  on ;  tell  me  all  she 
said." 

"  All !  as  if  that  were  not  enough !  No,  thank  Good- 
ness !  I  have  not  yet  seen  my  sister-in-law.  I  did  not 
suppose  you  would  marry  a  mad  woman  hke  Mrs.  Arm- 
strong, or  a  mere  baby  like  Hope  Ansted,  or " 

"Or  Miss  Reay  herself,"  added  Ninian,  trying  to 
smile.  "  Tinie  might  imagine  even  that,  when  once  she 
takes  into  her  head  such  unjust  thoughts  of  her  brother.** 

He  was  indeed  one  worthy  the  name  of  man,  who 


168  MRS.    SMITH    AND    HER    COUSIN    FANNY. 

could  speak  so  calmly,  with  a  voice  that  never  betrayed 
one  trace  of  the  struggle  beneath  —  the  passion,  the 
self-reproach,  the  love  warring  against  other  love,  and 
the  stern,  iron  hand  of  duty  laid  over  all. 

"  "Were  they  unjust !  O,  say  over  again  that  they 
were  unjust !  You  couldn't  do  it,  Ninian  ;  you  couldn't 
turn  away  your  poor  little  pet  and  marry  her  to  any 
stupid  fool  that  asks  her ;  no,  not  even  that  you  might 
take  a  wife  yourself!  Never  mind  what  Miss  Reay 
said  —  the  wretch !  If  I  had  really  believed  it,  it  would 
have  broken  my  heart." 

So  exclaimed  the  little  creature,  pouring  out  her  feel- 
ings amidst  a  shower  of  tears,  trying  to  draw  Ninian*s 
hands  to  her,  and  wondering  that  he  stood  so  grave,  so 
cold,  so  unlike  himself,  though  without  a  shadow  of  un- 
kindness  or  anger. 

"  You  will  forgive  me  now  ?  I  would  not  grieve  you 
for  a  moment,  my  own  brother !  We  all  know  what  an 
angel  of  a  brother  you  are.  You  will  never  think  of 
marrying  when  we  love  you  so  much  ?  That  was  what 
I  said  to  Miss  Reay.  Tell  me,  only  tell  me  that  it  is  so ! 
You  will  never  go  and  love  some  stranger,  and  leave 
your  sisters  alone  in  the  wide  world?" 

He  turned  his  face  upward ;  it  was  very  white,  or 
else  the  sunshine  made  it  seem  so.  He  said,  "  Grod  is 
my  witness,  I  never  wiU ! " 


MRS.    SMITH    AND    HER    COUSIN   FANNY.  169 

Then  he  sat  down  on  a  stone  and  let  his  little  sister 
creep  to  him,  clasping  him  round  the  neck,  laughing  and 
crying  at  once,  breaking  off  at  times  to  mm-mur,  "O, 
forgive  me ! "  "  O,  don't  let  my  naughty  words  grieve 
y^u  ! "  "  Ninian,  —  brother  Ninian,  —  you  are  quite  sure 
you  love  me  better  than  you  love  any  one  ?  " 

"  What,  not  satisfied  yet  ?  "  And  he  tried  to  look  at 
her  with  his  old  smile  and  caress  her  in  his  old  affec- 
tionate way,  but  could  not.  "  God  forgive  me ! "  he 
muttered,  and  once  more  turned  his  face  up  to  the  broad 
sky,  that  wore  to  him  a  brightness  like  marble,  as  daz- 
zling and  as  hard.  He  was  thankful  that  Tinie's  tears 
blinded  her,  so  that  she  did  not  see  her  brother. 

"  Yes,  indeed,  I  am  quite  satisfied !  I  will  never 
grieve  you  any  more  —  never !  Say  that  you  are  not 
grieved  now  —  at  least  not  very  much." 

"  O,  no !  O,  no ! "  He  patted  her  hands,  which  held 
him  so  closely  ;  and  then,  as  he  rose  up,  their  clasp  dis- 
solved of  itself.  "  We  must  walk  on  now,  Tinie  —  at  all 
events,  I  must.  I  think,"  —  he  faltered,  as  if  for  the 
first  time  his  heart  recoiled  at  the  necessary  hypocrisy, — 
"  I  think  you  will  be  tired  if  you  go  farther ;  nor  shall  I 
like  you  to  return  alone." 

"  I  am  not  tired  in  the  least,  and  I  would  like  to  walk 
with  you  all  the  way  to  Helensburg." 

"  It  will  not  do,"  said  Ninian,  with  a  faint  smile.  "  1 
15 


170  MRS.    SMITH   AND    HER    COUSIN   FANNT. 

have  business.  I  must  send  my  wee  sister  back,  now 
that  we  have  talked  over  all  we  had  to  speak  about.*' 

Tinie  looked  ashamed.  She  waited  a  minute  for  him 
to  recur  to  the  subject  of  their  earlier  conversation ;  but 
he  did  not.  He  walked  along  mechanically,  as  if  ob- 
livious of  every  thing.     She  said  at  length,  timidly,  — 

"  Brother,  I  know  how  wrong  I  have  been  about  that 
letter.  Will  you  tell  me  what  I  must  do  ?  or  will  you 
tell  Mr.  MacCallum  yourself?"    ^ 

"  Tell  Mr.  MacCallum  what  ?  Ah,  yes,  child,  what 
we  were  saying.     I  understand !  " 

"  You  will  write  to  him,  then  ?  Tell  him  I  am  very 
sorry,  —  I  am,  indeed,  —  and  I  will  never  do  so  any 
more,"  said  the  little  maiden,  in  a  tone  of  great  compunc- 
tion.    "  For  the  rest,  brother,  you  know  what  to  say." 

"  Yes  !  yes ! "  He  drew  his  hand  over  his  eyes.  "  I 
am  very  stupid,  Tinie ;  but  I  did  not  quite  hear  you. 
My  head  aches,  the  sun  so  dazzles  on  the  loch.  Tell 
me  over  again  what  you  wish  written,  and  I  will  do  it  at 
once.     I  rather  think  I  shall  walk  to  Dr.  Reay's." 

"  O,  don't  write  the  letter  there !  Pray,  pray  don't 
tell  the  Reays  any  thing  about  it.  She  would  think,  and 
he  would  think " 

"  Think  what  ?  "  said  Ninian,  attracted  by  the  degree 
of  alarm  expressed  by  his  sister. 

"I   don't  care  —  I    don't    care  —  not  a    jot!     The 


MRS.    SMITH    AND    HEB    COUSIN   FANNY.  171 

professor  may  consider  me  what  he  likes  —  a  foolish  Uttle 
Jhing  '  of  the  genus  Papilionaceae,'  as  I  heard  him  say. 
But  I  don't  choose  that  Miss  Reay,  knowing  I  have  re- 
fused Mr.  MacCallum,  should  therefore  imagine  —  what 
she  had  the  insufferable  impertinence  to  tell  me  one 
day " 

"  More  confessions  ?  Nay,  wee  thing !  don't  stammer. 
Let  us  have  them ! " 

"  She  said  I  was  trying  —  and  you,  too,  in  your  eager- 
ness to  get  me  married  —  that  —  that  I  should  be  made 
her  niece.  There,  you  have  it  now  !  No  wonder  I  was 
in  a  passion ;  no  wonder  I  have  been  playing  all  sorts 
of  wild  games.  She  shall  never  think  I  want  to  catch 
people  that  have  all  brains  and  no  heart  —  dry,  musty, 
geological,  old " 

"Nay,  keep  that  foolish  little  head  cool.  Nobody 
with  any  sense,  certainly  not  Kenneth  Reay  himself, 
would  ever  dream  of  such  a  ridiculous  thing,"  said  Nin- 
ian,  trying  to  reassume  his  ordinary  manner  and  to  turn 
his  mind  to  the  things  she  was  talking  about.  But  he 
heard  them  and  answered  through  a  mist;  they  made 
no  impression  upon  him.  Only  once  more  he  attempted 
to  send  away  Tinie,  dismissing  her  with  a  smile  and 
a  jest. 

"  Go  home,  lassie ;  I  will  keep  your  counsel.  And 
don't  get  into  more  love  labyrinths  for  your  sage  elder 


172    MRS.  SMITH  AND  HER  COUSIN  FANNY. 

brother  to  have  to  dash  in  and  rescue  you.     He  migLt 
get  lost  himself,  you  know." 

"  O,  no  fear !  Nothing  would  ever  bewilder  brother 
Ninian,"  cried  the  blithe  creature,  as  she  turned  back  and 
went  singing  along  the  shore  of  the  sunny  Gare  Loch. 

Fanny.  I  guess  that  the  young  lady  is  in  love  with 
the  professor,  though  she  does  rail  at  him. 

Mrs.  Smith.  I  shall  not  tell;  but  even  this  one  pas- 
sage may  give  you  an  idea  of  the  book. 

Fanny.  I  am  sure  I  shall  like  it. 

Mrs.  Smith.  I  have  half  a  mind  to  say  I  will  not  read 
another  novel  for  three  months  to  come.  I  cannot  read 
poor  ones,  and  the  good  ones  are  so  interesting  —  I  would 
say  exciting  if  I  were  not  tired  of  that  hackneyed  word 
—  that  there  is  no  laying  them  down. 

Fanny.  Especially  one  like  the  Head  of  the  Fam- 
ily, which  is  not  to  be  skipped  and  rattled  through  ;  for 
BO  much  of  its  merit  consists  in  its  subtle  touches  of 
character  and  powerful  writing. 


SCANDAL  IN  FAIRYLAND. 

BY    CHARLES    H.    HITCHING8. 

Do  you  lie«r  *he  Breeze  whispering  ?     Hush !  hush 
Do  you  he.«r  him  ?     Now  listen  to  me  : 

There's  a  bonny  iweet  Brier  there,  hid  in  the  bush ; 

And  he  whispers  and  ki<sses,  and  makes  her  to  blush : 

But  I'm  told  by  a  dear  little  spy  of  a  Tlu-ush 
He  has  rivals  —  and  oiX3  is  the  Bee ; 
Entre  nous, 
He's  a  very  rich  rival,,  tie  Bee. 

"We  all  know  how  the  Fuc)i%Aj  tight  laces  — 

Well,  her  cheeks  have  gro'w  i^  perfectly  red ; 
And  I've  heard  it  reported  in  si^veral  places 
That  the  Lily  is  losing  the  who?o  of  her  graces, 
That  failing  and  fading  her  beautiful  face  is, 
Through  tippling  cold  dewdrops  in  bed ; 

Entre  nous, 
It's  a  bad  habit  tippling  in  bed. 

15*  (173) 


174  SCANDAL    IN   FAIRYLAND. 

They  dx)  say  that  the  Rose  is  a  figure, 

(But  we  mustn't  believe  half  they  say,) 
That  she's  losing  her  petals  and  lacking  her  vigor, 
Growing  weaker  and  weaker,  and  bigger  and  bigger  - 
It's  a  shame  among  friends  to  use  overmuch  rigor. 

But,  hark  you !  I  saw  her  to-day  ; 

Entre  nous, 

I'm  afraid  she  is  fading  away. 

Have  you  heard  little  Puck  is  exiled  ? 

Such,  I  vow,  was  reported  to  me  ; 
Yes  !  for  being  a  somewhat  too  tricksome  and  wild, 
And  behaving  far  more  like  a  little  pet  child 
Than  a  decent  small  fairy,  whose  pranks  should  be  mild. 

But  Pease  Blossom  is  waiting  for  me ; 
Au  revoir, 

You'll  remember  the  Brier  and  the  Bee ! 


LIFE'S   KOH-I-NOOR. 

BT   J.  J.   REYNOLDS. 

Of  all  the  pleasures  life  can  give, 
Of  all  that  makes  it  blest  to  live 

Upon  this  lukewarm  earth, 
Grant  me  but  one  congenial  mind 
Wherein  my  own  can  ever  find 

All  sympathy's  sweet  worth. 

Not  a  submissive,  pliant  thing. 
Which  unto  mine  would  meekly  cling, 

The  semblance  of  a  shade. 
That  could  but  think  as  I  had  thought, 
As  if  it  had  the  echo  caught 

Of  every  speech  I  made. 

The  kindred  mind  my  love  desires, 
Something  beyond  a  power  requires 
To  image  back  my  own ; 

(176) 


176  life's  koh-i-noor. 

Its  rich  ideal  world  within 
Should  peopled  be  with  tastes  akin, 
But  not  that  mine  had  sown. 

Its  precious  attributes  should  be  — 
To  feel  deep  interest  in  me ; 

That  interest  to  impart ; 
To  learn,  not  track,  my  inner  ways ; 
To  note,  not  use,  my  mental  gaze 

By  LoA'e's  perceptive  art. 

To  waken  life,  and  warmth,  and  light, 
Where  hang  the  dewy  damps  of  night 

Around  my  slumb'ring  breast ; 
So  that  those  rays  of  mind  may  shine 
Back  on  the  chosen  one  from  mine 

With  all  my  soul  impressed. 

To  deem  it  favor's  choicest  task 
My  mind  or  body's  aid  to  ask, 

A  smile  or  tear  to  claim ; 
And  so  with  hand,  eye,  tongue,  and  ear 
Be  ready,  watchful,  and  sincere 

In  oiFering  me  the  same. 

To  bid  me  view  its  hidden  cells ; 
To  tell  me  what  there  secret  dwells, 


life's  koh-i-noor.  177 

Be  it  of  joy  or  woe ; 
A  thrill  of  happiness  to  feel 
Whene'er  it  would  to  me  reveal 

What  none  but  I  should  know. 

With  me  to  tread  the  path  of  flowers— 
With  me  to  pass  life's  thorny  hours, 

And  still  together  learn 
To  walk  above  with  angel  feet, 
Where  truth  is  full  and  bliss  complete, 

Where  sin  knows  no  return. 

Call  it  Affection,  Friendship,  Love, 
A  gleam  on  earth  of  heaven  above, 

Faith,  Trust,  or  Constancy ; 
All  would  unite  to  make  us  blessed 
All  in  a  word  may  be  expressed, 

And  that  is  —  Sympathy. 

Say  not  two  mortals  here  below 
Such  unison  can  never  know. 

So  pure  and  so  sincere  ; 
Perfection  none  indeed  attain. 
Yet  surely  'twere  not  quite  in  vain 

To  strive  for  something  near. 


ME.  JOHN   CAMPBELL'S   MISTAKES. 

BY    PAULINE    FORSYTH. 

There  was  a  lyceum  in  Louden.  It  had  some  Greek 
name,  which  I  have  forgotten,  as  we  seldom  tried  to 
pronounce  it.  Almost  all  the  young  gentlemen  of  the 
place  were  members  of  it,  and  sharpened  their  wits 
during  the  winter  by  weekly  contests  with  each  other. 
At  the  close  of  the  season  they  usually  held  a  public 
debate,  to  which  the  ladies  were  especially  invited. 
The  subject  announced  for  discussion  upon  the  only 
meeting  which  I  attended  was  whether,  "  intellectually 
considered,  women  are  equal  to  men." 

I  presume  this  topic  was  chosen  out  of  respect  to  the 
fairer  part  of  the  audience ;  and  it  was  one  too  generally 
interesting  not  to  command  a  full  attendance.  Every 
bench  in  the  large  hall  was  crowded  with  ladies  in  their 
prettiest  array.  Many  of  the  gentlemen  were  obliged 
to  stand  during  the  whole  evening ;  others  encroached 

(178) 


MB.  JOHN  Campbell's  mistakes.  179 

upon  the  seats  reserved  for  the  speakers  or  gathered 
round  the  platform. 

Some  of  the  disputants,  "unaccustomed  to  public 
speaking,"  were  thrown  into  such  great  consternation  by 
finding  themselves  gazing  down  upon  so  many  bright 
eyes  and  rosy  cheeks  That,  after  stammering  out  a  sen- 
tence or  two,  they  fled  precipitately  down  from  their 
trying  elevation  to  hide  themselves  among  their  com- 
panions. All  these,  I  am  happy  to  observe,  were  on 
the  negative  side  of  the  question. 

Those  who  spoke  in  the  affirmative  had  too  good  an 
opportunity  to  pay  the  ladies  highflown  and  astonishing 
compliments  not  to  improve  it.  One  of  them,  I  remem- 
ber, compared  woman  to  "  the  moon  careering  like  a 
storm  through  the  firmament  and  throwing  light  on  the 
orb  beneath." 

I  doubt  much  whether 

*'  That  white-orbed  maiden, 

With  bright  fire  laden, 
Whom  mortals  call  the  moon," 

was  ever  known  to  forget  the  usual  serene  majesty  of 
her  slow  progress  through  the  sky  in  so  surprising  a 
manner ;  but  I  am  afraid  it  is  but  too  true  that  woman, 
especially  in  these  latter  days,  does  sometimes  "  career 
like  a  storm." 


180  MR.  JOHN  Campbell's  mistakes. 

There  was  an  inconsistency  in  the  bestowal  of  ap- 
plause that  my  rigid  sense  of  justice  rebelled  against. 
The  gentlemen,  on  whom  this  duty  devolves  by  long 
usage  and  faithful  performance,  clapped  and  stamped 
with  the  most  gallant  and  generous  forgetfulness  of  their 
hands  or  boots  whenever  any  particularly  felicitous  com- 
pliment to  the  ladies  was  uttered ;  even  the  slightest 
hint  in  that  direction  or  flattering  allusion  met  with 
ready  sympathy  and  approval ;  while  all  the  speeches 
in  the  negative  were  heard  in  the  most  profound  and 
depressing  silence.  My  feelings  of  compassion  were 
quite  moved  for  the  poor  unfortunates  who  had  chosen 
so  unpopular  a  side.  If  it  had  not  been  for  my  strict 
ideas  of  propriety,  and  my  timidity,  and  my  thin  boots, 
and  very  tight  French  gloves,  I  would  have  given  them 
a  little  encouragement  myself.  I  had  the  heart  to  do 
it ;  but  there  were  too  many  obstacles  in  the  way. 

Yet  when  the  decision  was  pronounced,  and,  though 
all  the  best  speakers  and  best  arguments  had  been  in 
favor  of  "  Heaven's  last,  best  gift,"  it  was  given  against 
the  sex,  the  room  rang  and  shook  again  with  the  clam- 
orous approbation  with  which  the  sentence  was  received. 
It  was  a  Parthian  arrow  shot  at  us ;  and,  coming  at  a 
moment  when  we  were  looking  for  victory,  the  surprise 
utterly  routed  us.  I  have  never  again,  I  hope,  wasted 
60  uselessly  my  stock  of  sympathy. 


ME.  JOHN  Campbell's  mistakes.  181 

The  evening  of  this  particular  speaking  was  rendered 
memorable  in  Louden  by  an  event  which  occurred  just 
after  the  performance.  It  was  a  case  of  love  at  first 
sight  —  that  most  romantic  of  all  romantic  things. 

Mr.  John  Campbell,  a  young  gentleman  studying  law 
with  his  uncle,  Mr.  Woods,  fell  in  love  at  the  first 
glance  he  caught  of  the  fair  face  of  Imogen  Edwards,  a 
young  lady  returned  a  few  days  before  from  the  convent 
at  Georgetown,  where  she  had  been  completing  her 
education. 

Of  course  the  attack  was  sudden.  One  moment  Mr. 
Campbell  was  as  free  as  air ;  woman  was  to  him,  and 
had  been  since  he  was  sixteen,  nothing  but  an  obstacle, 
a  perplexity,  an  embarrassment.  He  had  no  objection 
to  their  sharing  the  world  with  him ;  but  he  wished  that 
they  would  keep  out  of  his  way  —  it  was  all  he  asked. 
They  would  not  grant  him  that* simple  favor;  so  he 
walked  squares  to  avoid  meeting  any  one  of  them  that 
he  knew  would  expect  a  bow  from  him.  There  was  a 
very  talkative  and  benevolent  maiden  lady  who  took  it 
into  her  head  that  he  was  dull  and  moping,  and  persist- 
ed in  hunting  him  out  of  every  corner  in  which  he  took 
refuge,  or  stopping  him  in  the  street  to  have  a  little  chat 
with  him  and  "  cheer  him  up,"  as  she  said.  How  he 
dreaded  the  sight  of  her!  He  had  walked  miles, 
plunged  into  alleys  and  lanes  when  they  were  in  a  state 
16 


182  MR.  JOHN  Campbell's  mistakes. 

of  mud  that  rendered  them  almost  impassable,  and  dart- 
ed into  his  friends'  offices  or  shops  —  and  all  to  avoid 
the  good,  gossiping,  little  Miss  Parker. 

But  his  hour  was  come ;  and  in  one  second  he  wa? 
drowned  so  deep  in  love  that  all  assistance  was  in  vain. 
Perhaps  my  younger  readers  would  Hke  to  know  exact- 
ly how  and  when  the  deed  was  done. 

The  debate  was  ended.  The  ladies,  after  having 
been  raised  to  the  seventh  heaven  and  dashed  so  sud- 
denly to  the  earth  again,  were  gathering  themselves  to- 
gether with  a  most  wonderful  unconcern  and  lightness 
of  spirit,  proving  of  what  elastic  materials  they  were 
made,  and  discussing  the  merits  of  the  several  speakers. 
Some  remark  was  uttered  that  Imogen  thought  amusing, 
and  she  laughed.  That  low,  sweet  laugh,  like  the  sil- 
very tinklings  of  a  musical  box,  struck  upon  Mr.  Camp- 
bell's ear  as  the  pleasantest  sound  he  had  ever  heard. 

He  was  standing  near  her;  for,  though  he  avoided 
all  mixed  society  where  any  of  the  burden  of  the  enter- 
tainment might  fall  to  his  share,  lie  rather  affected 
crowds  and  assemblies,  where  he  could  be  allowed  to 
remain  a  mere  listener  and  observer.  Attracted  by  the 
laugh,  he  turned  to  discover  from  whom  it  proceeded, 
and  saw  a  fresh,  delicate  young  face,  whose  dimpled 
cheeks  and  parted  lips  confirmed  the  sweet  assurance 
the   voice   had   given ;    and   the   unconscious   Imogen 


MR.  JOHN    CAMPBELL'S    MISTAKES.  183 

completed  her  first  conquest.  Yet  she  was  not  remark- 
ably pretty.  There  were  many  handsomer  girls  in 
Louden.  It  was  the  dovelike  expression  that  inno- 
cence and  amiability  gave  her  face  that  made  her  so 
attractive. 

The  next  evening  there  was  to  be  a  party ;  and  Mr. 
Campbell  announced  his  intention  of  attending.  His 
aunt  was  amazed ;  for  he  had  steadfastly  refused  all  for- 
mer invitations  and  entreaties.  She  was  astonished,  too, 
when  he  came  down  prepared  for  the  evening,  to  see 
how  well  he  looked  when  carefully  dressed ;  for  he  was 
generally  very  negligent  in  his  attire. 

"  Why,  John,"  said  she,  "  I  had  no  idea  you  were  so 
good  looking." 

He  seemed  quite  pleased,  but  said,  — 

"  Don't  you  think,  aunt  Ellen,  the  barber  here  cuts 
hair  shockingly  ?  It  seems  to  me  mine  never  looked  so 
badly ;  and  my  coat  fits  dreadfully ;  I  am  going  down 
to  New  Orleans  to  get  a  new  one  as  soon  as  I  can." 

"  Aha !  Somebody  has  made  an  impression  on 
that  flinty  heart  of  yours.  Nothing  less  could  work 
such  a  change.  Who  is  it,  John  ?  Is  it  Imogen  Ed- 
wai-ds  ?  " 

The  color  rose  to  his  forehead  as  he  replied,  — 

"  Can't  a  man  go  to  a  party  without  being  in  love, 
aunt  Ellen  ?     And  of  course,  if  I  do  go,  I  want  to  look 


184  MR.  JOHN  Campbell's  mistakes. 

like  the  rest  of  the  people.  To  tell  the  truth,  though," 
he  continued,  after  a  moment's  pause,  "  I  do  think  hei 
the  prettiest  girl  I  have  ever  seen  —  beautiful,  in  fact ; 
and  I  wish,  aunt,  that  you  would  contrive  to  introduce 
me  to  her.  But  I  have  seen  so  little  of  ladies  lately 
that  I  have  forgotten  how  to  talk  to  them.  I  haven't 
the  first  idea  on  the  subject.  I  have  been  puzzUng  my 
head  about  it  all  the  afternoon.  If  I  could  begin,  I 
could  go  on,  I  am  sure.  Couldn't  you  help  me  out  a 
little?" 

Those  are  perplexities  that  meet  with  very  little  sym- 
pathy ;  and  his  aunt  only  laughed  at  him  and  amused 
herself  by  proposing  all  kinds  of  absurd  and  ridiculous 
remarks  with  which  he  might  at  least  astonish  the  young 
lady.  He  listened  patiently  for  a  while  in  hopes  of 
hearing  something  that  might  be  useful ;  but  at  last  he 
became  a  little  indignant  at  being  made  a  source  of 
amusement,  for  he  was  very  much  in  earnest. 

"  I  will  ask  her  to  dance,"  said  he. 

"  Don't,  John,  I  entreat  you ;  you  know  nothing  about 
dancing ;  and  you  will  commit  a  hundred  blunders,  you 
are  so  shortsighted.  Besides,  your  parents  disapprove 
of  it  so  much  —  I  do  not  know  what  they  would  say  if 
they  saw  you  on  the  floor." 

**  I  think,  aunt,  they  should  have  allowed  me  to  learn 
dancing.     Every  gentleman  ought  to  be  familiar  with 


MR.  JOHN  Campbell's  mistakes.  185 

all  those  accomplishments  that  will  make  him  feel  at  his 
ease  in  society." 

"  Well,  John,  there  is  no  use  in  reasoning  with  a  man 
in  love.  In  one  short  night  you  are  entirely  changed. 
I  suppose  you  have  forgotten  how  often  you  have 
amused  yourself  at  the  expense  of '  rational  people  with 
souls  spending  whole  evenings  in  moving  their  feet 
about  to  a  tune  scraped  by  untutored  fingers  out  of 
some  poor  fiddle.'  Those  were  your  very  words.  I 
thought  them  quite  fine  at  the  time.  But  little  did  I 
expect  to  see  my  sensible  nephew  bitten  by  the  taran- 
tula he  pretended  to  despise." 

"  It  is  very  easy  to  laugh,  aunt  Ellen  ;  but  that  same 
nephew,  now  looking  at  society  from  another  standpoint, 
says — and  it  is  one  of  his  most  sensible  remarks  —  that 
if  people  wish  to  go  into  society  wnthout  feeling  intol- 
erably awkward  there  they  must  comply  with  its  cus- 
toms." 

"  Do  any  thing,  John,  but  dance,"  was  his  aunt's  last 
warning. 

If  he  had  attended  to  it  his  love  affair  might  have 
had  a  diflTerent  termination. 

The  dancing  had  already  commenced  when  Mr. 
Campbell  aiTived  with  his  aunt ;  and,  Imogen  entering 
soon  after,  Mrs.  Woods  seized  a  favorable  opportunity 
to  introduce  them. 

16* 


186  MR.  JOHN  Campbell's  mistakes. 

They  stood  for  a  moment  in  an  embarrassing  silence. 
Both  were  new  to  society  and  very  diffident,  and  neither 
could  think  of  a  word  to  say.  Rousing  himself  with  a 
sudden  resolution  Mr.  Campbell  ventured  to  request  the 
pleasure  of  her  hand  for  the  next  "  set." 

Imogen  danced  very  well ;  she  had  a  slight,  graceful 
figure  that  seemed  to  move  itself  through  all  the  mazy 
windings  of  the  reel  and  cotillon.  Waltzes,  polkas,  and 
schottisches  had  not  yet  arrived  in  Louden.  She  was 
very  fond  of  it  too ;  but  her  pleasure  for  that  evening 
was  soon  destroyed. 

A  man  desperately  in  love  is  not  exactly  in  a  fit  con- 
dition to  make  his  first  attempt  at  dancing  in  a  crowded 
ball  room;  his  mind  is  not  cool  enough.  And  Mr. 
John  Campbell  achieved  in  five  minutes  the  entire 
breaking  up  of  the  cotillon  from  his  reckless  determi- 
nation to  follow  Imogen  through  every  thing.  If  it 
would  have  given  his  mother  a  pang  to  know  that  he 
had  danced,  it  made  his  aunt's  heart  ache  to  see  how 
he  did  it. 

Imogen  retreated  to  her  mother's  side  covered  with 
confusion.  She  was  very  sensitive ;  and  with  the  ex- 
aggerated importance  the  young  attach  to  such  little 
mortifications  she  imagined  herself  an  object  of  ridicule 
and  amusement  to  the  whole  room.  She  refused  to 
iance  any  more  that  evening,  and  told  her  friends  the 


MB.  JOHN  Campbell's  mistakes.  187 

next  day  that  "  she  could  not  endure  Mr.  Campbell ;  she 
hoped  she  should  never  see  him  again.'* 

Her  manner  was  so  soft  and  gentle  that  Mr.  Camp- 
bell, unused  to  reading  the  signs,  slight  but  unmistaka- 
ble, of  a  woman's  preference  or  dislike,  did  not  perceive 
her  displeasure.  It  passed  away  in  some  degree  after 
a  time  ;  but  the  first  unfavorable  impression  remained. 

Mr.  Campbell  was  constant  in  his  attentions  and  spent 
several  miserable  evenings  with  her,  when  long  passages 
of  silence  were  broken  now  and  then  by  spasmodic  at- 
tempts at  conversation.  Sometimes  he  would  go  home 
quite  sad  and  desponding ;  at  other  times  some  Httle 
word  or  expression  raised  him  to  the  sunmiit  of  felici- 
ty. His  general  impression  was  that  he  was  "  com- 
ing on." 

Once  as  he  was  leaving  the  room  she  said  "  Adieu  " 
with  a  pretty  French  accent.  This  kept  him  awake  all 
night.  He  repeated  the  word  over  and  over,  trying  to 
catch  the  very  tone  in  which  she  had  spoken  it;  and 
there  was  no  meaning  of  which  it  was  susceptible  that 
he  did  not  extract  from  it. 

Volumes  might  be  filled  with  imaginary  dangers  from 
which  he  rescued  her  and  the  distress  and  sorrow  from 
which  he  shielded  her. 

One  very  stormy  morning  he  was  indulging  in  these 
daydreams  sitting  in  his  study  chair  by  the  fire  in  his 


188  MK.  JOHN    CAMPBELl/S    MISTAKES. 

office.  The  wedding  was  over ;  the  house  was  bought 
and  furnished,  and  she,  the  idol  of  his  heart,  transformed 
from  the  shy  maiden  that  he  was  half  afraid  of  to  the 
busy  little  wife  with  a  basket  of  keys  in  her  hand,  was 
just  saying  "  What  shall  we  have  for  dinner,  John  ?  "  in 
the  most  matter-of-course  way.  He  stopped  to  brood 
over  this  question  for  a  moment.  That  "  we,"  implying 
such  a  unity  of  interest,  the  familiar  calling  him  by  his 
name,  the  household  nature  of  the  question,  filled  his 
heart  with  more  pleasant  reveries  than  all  the  poetry  he 
had  ever  read.  He  almost  forgot  that  it  was  not  real, 
when,  glancing  towards  the  window,  he  saw  Imogen 
hurrying  by  without  an  umbrella,  although  the  rain  was 
falling  in  continuous  streams  rather  than  drops.  It 
seemed  as  though  the  clouds  had  been  seized  with  a 
hydropathic  mania,  and  were  determined  to  give  the 
world  and  the  poor  atoms  toiling  on  its  surface  a  douch- 
ing, (which  is  nothing  but  a  German  way  of  spelling 
ducking.) 

Mr.  Campbell,  distressed  at  the  thought  of  the  deli- 
cate Imogen  being  caught  in  such  a  storm  and  delighted 
at  the  prospect  of  being  of  use  to  her,  seized  his  hat 
Mnd  umbrella,  as  he  supposed,  and  ran  after  her.  She 
uras  walking  very  fast  and  was  already  some  distance 
from  his  office ;  but  he  overtook  her  at  last. 

"  Miss  Imogen,  let  me  offer  you  my  umbrella.** 


MR.  JOHN  Campbell's  mistakes.  189 

For  once  she  was  really  pleased  to  see  him.  She 
•ooked  round  with  a  smile,  saying,  — 

"  Thank  you."  The  smile  changed  to  a  look  full  of 
mirth  and  wonder.  "  Do  you  call  that  an  umbrella,  Mr. 
Campbell  ?  " 

His  attention  directed  to  it,  he  perceived  that  he  held 
his  cane  upraised  umbrella  fashion  in  his  hand.  He 
was  too  much  confused  to  speak. 

"  I  do  not  think  that  will  afford  me  much  protection, 
Mr.  Campbell  —  good  morning!"  And  Imogen  hur- 
ried on. 

He  returned  to  his  office  quite  out  of  patience  with 
himself.  He  called  himself  an  "absent-minded  idiot" 
and  by  every  other  opprobrious  epithet  he  could  find, 
walked  up  and  down  the  room  with  hurried  strides, 
then  threw  himself  into  a  chair  clasping  his  forehead 
with  his  hand.  If  any  one  had  observed  him  they  might 
have  been  justified  in  supposing  he  had  committed  some 
crime,  in  such  distress  did  he  appear. 

At  last  he  took  refuge  in  reading  Byron  :  — 

"  I  have  not  loved  tlie  world,  nor  the  world  me," 

touched  a  sympathetic  chord  in  his  heart    But  happen- 
oig  to  light  upon 

"  O  that  the  desert  were  my  dwelling-place. 
With  one  fair  spirit  for  my  minister ! " 


190  MR.  JOHN  Campbell's  mistakes. 

he  went  off  into  a  revery  again,  and,  after  meditating 
for  some  hours,  resolved  to  take  the  first  opportunity  to 
decide  his  fate. 

The  next  morning  he  received  a  letter  which,  on 
opening,  he  found  to  be  a  very  spirited  and  amusing 
indictment  in  verse  accusing  him  of  an  attempt  to  com- 
mit assault  and  battery  on  a  lady  in  the  public  square. 

"  Hast  thou  found  me,  O  mine  enemy  ?  "  he  groaned, 
as  he  recognized  the  writing  of  Tom  Jessup,  the  wittiest 
man  in  Louden  and  one  who  never  allowed  a  good  story 
to  be  forgotten. 

He  had  hoped  that  his  blunder  had  not  been  ob 
served ;  but  he  knew  too  well  that  concealment  now  was 
hopeless ;  for  if  every  other  window  had  been  closely 
shut  and  barred,  and  among  all  the  inhabitants  of  Lou- 
den only  Tom  Jessup,  like  his  peeping  namesake  of 
Coventry,  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  him  with  his  uplifted 
cane,  every  lounger  in  the  hotel  or  at  the  comers  of 
the  streets  would  be  laughing  about  him  before  nightfall. 

His  prognostications  were  verified ;  for  every  person 
he  met  while  going  to  and  from  his  office  seemed  called 
upon  to  stop  him  with  some  question  or  remark  they 
evidently  intended  to  be  very  jocose  and  witty,  and  to 
which  Mr.  Campbell,  though  he  was  internally  suffering 
tortures,  felt  obliged  to  hear  with  a  calm  and  smiling 
face.     It  was  as  bad  as  running  the  gantlet. 


ME.  JOHN    CAMPBELL  S    MISTAKES.  191 

But  greater  troubles  were  in  store  for  hira.  All 
Imogen's  distaste  to  him  returned  when  she  found  that 
the  whole  town  was  amusing  itself  with  his  mistake. 
She  could  not  bear  the  idea  of  having  her  name  asso- 
ciated in  any  way  with  one  who  made  himself  so  ridic- 
ulously conspicuous.  She  took  the  greatest  pains  to 
avoid  him  whenever  they  were  thrown  together  in  social 
meetings,  and  generally  contrived  to  be  out  when  he 
called. 

Several  weeks  passed  by ;  and  during  all  that  time 
Mr.  Campbell  had  found  it  impossible  to  obtain  even 
ten  minutes*  conversation  with  Imogen.  One  beautiful 
moonlight  evening  he  took  his  flute,  on  which  he  played 
delightfully,  and  went  out  to  serenade  "  the  star  of  his 
night."  For  more  than  half  an  hour  the  dulcet  tones 
of  his  instrument  floated  on  the  night  air ;  and,  tranquil- 
lized and  soothed,  he  was  still  playing  away  vigorously, 
when  Imogen's  old  nurse,  who  hated,  she  said,  "  to  see 
the  poor  young  man  wasting  his  breath  so,"  thrust  her 
head  over  the  gate  and  told  him  "  'Twasn't  of  the  least 
use;  Miss  Imogen  had  been  gone  these  two  days  to 
Miss  Percy's." 

He  returned  home,  not  in  despair,  but  in  desperation ; 
and,  his  tumultuous  feelings  demanding  some  expression, 
he  seized  a  pen  and  found  himself  to  his  own  great 
adtonishment  suddenly  possessed  of  a  poetic  power,  of 


192  MR.  JOHN    CxOIPBELL'S    MISTAKES. 

wliich  lie  had  supposed  himself  utterly  deficient.  He 
wrote  several  verses  full  of  ardor  and  passion,  and 
which  were  truly  remarkable,  not  only  from  the  facility 
with  which  they  were  written,  but  from  their  concen- 
trated power  and  strength  of  expression.  It  was  his 
first  and  last  attempt  at  poetry ;  for  his  feelings  were 
never  again  wrought  to  so  high  a  pitch  as  to  force  from 
him  such  burning  words. 

He  did  not  send  the  verses  to  Imogen,  as  he  had  in- 
tended. Cooler  reflection  determined  him  to  keep  them 
till  the  interview,  which  he  was  anticipating  with  so 
much  trembling,  hope,  and  fear,  had  taken  place. 

Not  long  after  his  attempted  serenade  he  met  her 
again  at  a  party.  Most  unfortunately,  as  he  thought, 
whenever  he  asked  her  to  dance  she  was  engaged.  He 
did  not  imagine  that  she  had  made  an  arrangement  with 
a  good-natured  cousin  of  hers  to  be  at  her  command  for 
that  evening,  that  she  might  with  truth  plead  a  previous 
engagement.  He  asked  her  to  walk  in  the  piazza ;  but 
she  replied  that  her  mother  did  not  like  her  to  expose 
herself  to  the  night  air.  He  made  numerous  efforts  to 
obtain  an  opportunity  for  a  tete-a-tete,  but  in  vain.  At 
last  he  took  refuge  by  Miss  Parker's  side,  whose  niece 
and  namesake  Imogen  was.  This  relationship  had 
gradually  overcome  Mr.  Campbell's  old  dread  and 
dislike  of  her ;  and  he  now  often  found  himself  seek- 


MR.  JOHN  Campbell's  mistakes.  19? 

ing  her   society  when  his   own  Imogen  was  inacces- 
sible. 

The  time  for  the  breaking  up  of  the  party  arrived. 
The  ladies  were  in  the  dressing  room  up  stairs;  the 
gentlemen,  hat  in  hand,  waiting  in  the  passage  below. 
That  odious  cousin,  whose  obliging  disposition  had  al- 
ready aroused  the  demon  of  jealousy  in  Mr.  Campbell's 
heart,  was  standing  near  the  staircase.  Mr.  Campbell 
took  his  station,  a  little  in  advance  of  him,  at  its  very 
foot. 

Many  ladies  passed  in  review  before  him  and  disap- 
peared with  their  attendant  cavaliers  ;  but  Imogen  still 
delayed  her  coming.  At  last  he  heard  an  affectionate 
"  Good  night,  Imogen,"  followed  by  a  kiss ;  and  two 
ladies  came  hastily  down  the  staircase.  The  cousin 
stepped  quickly  forward ;  so  did  Mr.  Campbell.  "  Will 
you  take  my  arm,  Miss  Imogen?"  said  he  to  the  first  lady. 

Born  and  brought  up  in  Louden,  Miss  Parker  was 
oftener  called  even  yet  by  her  first  name  than  her  last ; 
so,  without  being  surprised,  —  for  lately  Mr.  Campbell 
had  been  unusually  attentive  to  her,  —  she  accepted  the 
offered  arm,  and  they  went  out  in  the  starlight  together. 
His  mistake  was  not  so  strange,  either ;  for  there  was 
that  general  resemblance  between  the  two  Imogens  in 
height  and  air  that  relationship  often  gives,  and  their 
evening  wrappings  almost  hid  their  faces. 
17 


194  MB.  JOHN    CAMPBELL*S    MISTAKES. 

They  had  but  a  short  distance  to  walk ;  and  Mr. 
Campbell  knew  he  had  no  time  to  lose  —  he  plunged  at 
once  into  the  midst  of  his  confession.  He  told  his  as- 
tonished listener  how  long  and  how  ardently  he  had 
loved  her. 

"  Dear  me ! "  thought  little  Miss  Parker. 

He  told  her  that  he  had  loved  her  from  the  first  mo- 
ment in  which  he  saw  her. 

"  And  I  never  even  suspected  it,"  thought  she. 

He  told  her  that  without  her  life  would  be  to  him  a 
burden,  a  dreary  void. 

"  Poor  fellow ! "  and  little  Miss  Parker  sighed  and 
shook  her  head. 

He  told  her  that  the  aim  of  every  thought,  every 
wish,  every  hope  of  his  through  life  would  be  her  hap- 
piness. 

"  Dear  me !  dear  me !  I  am  really  afraid  for  him," 
thought  little  Miss  Parker. 

"  And  now  will  you  not  speak  to  me  one  word  of 
encouragement  ?  " 

"  Indeed,  Mr.  Campbell,  you  have  taken  me  so  by 
surprise  that  I  don't  know  exactly  what  to  say.  Don't 
you  think  the  difference  in  our  ages " 

They  were  standing  by  the  door.  Mr.  Campbell  had 
his  hand  on  the  knob,  unwilling  to  turn  it  till  his  fate 
was  decided.     He  flung  the  door  wide  open,  gave  one 


MR.  JOHN    CAMPBELI/S    MISTAKES.  195 

Bearcliing  glance  at  the  lady's  face  as  the  light  from 
the  hall  lamp  fell  on  it,  and,  without  a  word,  sprang 
down  the  steps  and  out  of  the  gate.  He  passed  Imo- 
gen walking  slowly  along  w^ith  her  cousin,  but  did  not 
even  touch  his  hat  to  her,  though  the  same  merry,  mu- 
sical laugh  that  had  first  charmed  him  again  floated  to 
his  ears. 

Mr.  Campbell  left  Louden  the  next  day.  His  father 
had  written  for  him  to  return  some  time  before ;  but  he 
had  delayed  on  the  plea  of  business.  He  concluded 
he  had  "  done  the  business,"  and  that  there  was  nothing 
left  for  him  to  wait  for.  We  often  heard  of  him  after- 
wards as  one  of  the  most  promising  lawyers  in  St. 
Louis. 

I  met  him  a  year  or  two  ago.  Our  conversation  nat- 
urally turned  on  our  mutual  acquaintances  at  Louden. 
He  talked  very  frankly  about  his  love  for  Lnogen  ;  and 
I  was  surprised  to  find  how  deep  that  old  attachment 
had  struck  its  roots.  Not  that  he  had  been  constant  to 
her  memory ;  "  for  several  virtues  he  had  "  since  "  loved 
several  women ; "  but  he  told  me  that  she  was  the  only 
one  whom  he  had  thought  beautiful  —  the  only  one 
whom  he  had  regarded  as  perfect. 

I  thought  of  her,  long  since  a  happy  wife  and  mother, 
and,  though  married  to  a  man  by  no  means  Mr.  Camp* 


196  MR.  JOHN    CAMPBELI/S    MISTAKES. 

Dell's  equal,  yet  remembering  lilm  only  to  smile  at  his 
mishaps.  And  then  I  fell  to  wondering  at  the  love  that 
is  wasted  in  this  world. 

My  story  has  a  moral ;  but,  for  fear  people  would  not 
suspect  it,  I  will  point  it  out  to  them  :  — 

"  Look  before  you  leap." 


.f 


SONNET. 


BT    6.    A.    D.   BRUCKS. 


How  to  my  failing  spirit  shall  be  givea 

Realization  of  its  cherished  dream  ? 

A  bower  of  rest  where  golden  mornings  gleam 
Smiles  through  serener  depths  of  azure  heaven; 
Where  I  might  watch  the  glorious  tropic  even, 

When  from  the  moon  a  tranquillizing  stream 
Of  silver  sheen,  against  the  sunset  driven, 

Mingles  with  day  the  night's  ethereal  beam ; 
Where  the  gold  orange  shines  *mid  glossy  leaves, 

And  Nature's  sweet  benevolence  we  learn 
From  purpling  grapes  clust'ring  aneath  low  eaves. 

Where  brighter  flowers  the  evening  dews  inum. 
And  the  large  moon  a  mellower  influence  weaves 

Round  nights  whose  intense  stars  divinely  bum. 
17*  (i'^7) 


MIRANDA. 


TEMPEST. 


Miranda.  What  is't  ?  a  spirit  ? 

Lord,  how  it  looks  about !     Believe  me,  sir, 
It  carries  a  brave  form.     But  'tis  a  spirit. 

Prospero.  No,  wench:   it  eats  and  sleeps,  and  hath 
such  senses 
As  we  have,  such.    This  gallant  which  thou  seest 
Was  in  the  wreck ;  and,  but  he's  something  stained 
With  grief,  that's  beauty's  canker,  thou  mightst  call  him 
A  goodly  person.     He  hath  lost  his  fellows, 
And  strays  about  to  find  them. 

Mir,  I  might  call  him 

A  thing  divine ;  for  nothing  natural 
I  ever  saw  so  noble. 

Pro,  It  goes  on,  I  see,  [^Aside, 

As  my  soul  prompts  it.     Spirit,  fine  spirit  I    I'll  free 

thee 
Within  two  days  for  this. 

(198) 


MIRANDA.  199 

Ferdinand,  Most  sure,  the  goddess 

On  whom  these  airs  attend.    Vouchsafe  my  prayer 
May  know  if  you  remain  upon  this  island, 
And  that  you  will  some  good  instruction  give 
How  I  may  bear  me  here. 


KATIE   YALE*S  MARRIAGE. 

BY    J.    T.    TROWBRIDGE. 

**  If  ever  I  marry,"  Katie  Yale  used  to  saj,  half  in 
jest,  half  in  earnest,  —  "  if  ever  I  marry,  the  happy  man 
—  or  the  unhappy  one,  if  you  please  —  ha !  ha !  —  shall 
be  a  person  possessing  these  thi'ee  qualifications :  — 

"  First,  a  fortune. 

"  Second,  good  looks. 

"  And,  thirdly,  common  sense. 

"  I  mention  the  fortune  first,  because  I  think  it  the 
most  needful  and  desirable  qualification  of  the  three. 

"  Although  I  could  never  think  of  marrying  a  fool  or 
a  man  whose  ugliness  I  could  be  ashamed  of,  still  I 
think  to  talk  sense  for  the  one  and  shine  for  the  other, 
with  plenty  of  money,  would  be  preferable  to  living  ob- 
scurely with  a  handsome,  intellectual  man,  to  whom 
economy  might  be  necessary." 

I  do  not  know  how  much  of  this  sentiment  came 
fi"om  Katie's   heart.     She  undoubtedly  indulged  lofty 

(200) 


KATIE    YALE'S    MARRIAGE.  201 

i'ieas  of  station  and  style ;  for  her  education  in  the 
duties  and  aims  of  life  had  been  deficient,  or  rather 
erroneous ;  but  that  she  was  capable  of  deeper,  better 
feelings,  none  doubted  who  had  ever  obtained  even  a 
partial  glimpse  of  her  true  woman's  nature. 

And  the  time  arrived  at  length  when  Katie  was  to 
take  that  all-important  step  of  which  she  had  often 
spoken  so  lightly ;  when  she  was  to  demonstrate  to  her 
friends  how  much  of  her  heart  was  in  the  words  we 
have  quoted. 

At  the  enchanting  age  of  eighteen  she  had  many 
suitors ;  but,  as  she  never  gave  a  serious  thought  to 
more  than  two,  we  will  follow  her  example,  and,  discard- 
ing all  except  those  favored  ones,  consider  their  relative 
claims. 

If  this  were  any  other  than  a  true  story  I  should 
certainly  use  an  artist's  privilege,  and  aim  to  produce  an 
effect  by  making  a  strong  contrast  between  these  two 
favored  individuals.  If  I  could  have  my  way,  one 
should  be  a  poor  genius  and  somewhat  of  a  hero ;  the 
other  a  wealthy  fool  and  somewhat  of  a  knave. 

But  the  truth  is,  — 

Our  poor  genius  was  not  much  of  a  genius,  nor  very 
poor  either.  He  was  by  profession  a  teacher  of  music, 
and  he  could  live  very  comfortably  in  exercise  thereof 
—  without  the  most  distant  hope,  however,  of  ,ever 


202  KATIE  tale's  marriage. 

attaining  to  wealth.  Moreover,  Francis  Minot  possessed 
excellent  qualities,  which  entitled  him  to  be  called  by 
discreet  elderly  people  a  "  fine  character ; "  by  his  com- 
panions a  "  noble,  good  fellow  ; "  and  by  the  ladies  gen- 
erally a  '^ darling" 

Katie  could  not  help  loving  Mr.  Frank,  and  he  knew 
it.  He  was  certain  she  preferred  his  society  even  to 
that  of  Mr.  Wellington,  whom  alone  he  saw  fit  to  honor 
with  the  appellation  of  rival. 

This  Mr.  Wellington  (his  companions  called  him  the 
"duke")  was  no  idiot  or  humpback,  as  I  could  havf 
wished  him  to  be  in  order  to  make  a  good  story.  On 
the  contrary,  he  was  a  man  of  sense,  education,  good 
looks,  and  fine  manners ;  and  there  was  nothing  of  the 
knave  about  him,  as  I  could  ever  ascertain. 

Besides  this,  liis  income  was  sufficient  to  enable  him 
to  live  superbly.  Also  he  was  considered  two  or  three 
degrees  handsomer  than  Mr.  F.  Minot. 

Therefore,  the  only  thing  on  which  Frank  had  to 
depend  was  the  power  he  possessed  over  Katie's  sym- 
pathies and  affections.  The  "  duke  "  —  although  just  the 
man  for  her  in  every  other  sense,  being  blessed  with  a  for- 
tune, good  looks,  and  common  sense  —  had  never  been 
aWe  to  draw  these  out ;  and  the  amiably  conceited  Mr. 
Frank  was  not  wilhng  to  believe  that  she  would  suffei 
mere  worldly  considerations  to  control  the  aspirations  of 
her  heart 


KATIE  tale's  marriage.  203 

However,  she  said  to  liim  one  day,  when  he  pressed 
her  to  decide  his  fate,  —  she  said  to  him  with  a  sigh,  — 

"  O  Frank,  I  am  soriy  that  we  have  ever  met !  " 

"Sorry?" 

"  Yes ;  for  we  must  part  now " 

"  Part  ?  "  repeated  Frank,  turning  pale.  It  was  evi- 
dent he  had  not  expected  this. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  Katie,  casting  down  her  eyes  with 
another  piteous  sigh. 

Frank  sat  by  her  side ;  he  placed  his  arm  around  her 
waist  without  heeding  her  feeble  resistance  ;  he  lowered 
his  voice,  and  talked  to  her  until  she  —  the  proud  Katie 
—  wept,  wept  bitterly. 

"  Katie,"  said  he,  then,  with  a  burst  of  passion,  "  I 
know  you  love  me ;  but  you  are  proud,  ambitious, 
selfish. '  Now,  if  you  would  have  me  leave  you,  say 
the  word,  and  I  go." 

"  Go  ! "  murmured  Katie,  very  feebly ;  "  go  V* 

**  You  have  decided  ?  "  whispered  Frank. 

« I  have!" 

«  Then,  love,  farewell ! " 

He  took  her  hand,  gazed  a  moment  tenderly  and  sor- 
rowfully upon  her  beautiful,  tearful  face,  then  clasped 
her  to  his  bosom. 

She  permitted  the  embrace.  She  even  gave  way 
to  the  impulse  of  the  instant,  and  twined  her  arms  about 


204  KATIE  yale's  marriage. 

his  neck ;  but  in  a  moment  her  resolution  came  to  her 
aid,  and  she  pushed  him  from  her  with  a  sigh. 

"  Shall  I  go  ?  "  he  articulated. 

A  feeble  yes  fell  from  her  quivering  lips. 

And  an  instant  later  she  was  lying  upon  the  sofa,  sob- 
bing and  weeping  passionately,  alone. 

To  tear  the  tenacious  root  of  love  out  of  her  heart 
had  cost  her  more  than  she  could  have  anticipated ;  and 
the  certainty  of  a  golden  life  of  luxury  proved  but  a 
poor  consolation,  it  seemed,  for  the  sacrifice  she  had 
made. 

She  lay  long  upon  the  sofa,  I  say,  sobbing  and  weep- 
ing passionately.  Gradually  her  grief  appeared  to  ex- 
haust itself.  Her  breathing  became  more  regular  and 
calm.  Her  tears  ceased  to  flow,  and  at  length  her  eyes 
and  cheeks  were  dry.  Her  head  was  pillowed  on  her 
arm,  and  her  face  was  half  hidden  in  a  flood  of  beauti- 
ful curls. 

The  struggle  was  over  —  the  agony  was  passed.  She 
saw  Mr.  Wellington  enter,  and  arose  cheerfully  to 
receive  him.  His  manners  pleased  her ;  his  station  and 
fortune  fascinated  her  more.  He  offered  her  his  hand ; 
she  accepted  it.  A  kiss  sealed  the  engagement;  but 
it  was  not  such  a  kiss  as  Frank  had  given  her,  and  she 
could  not  repress  a  sigh. 

There  was  a  magnificent  wedding.    Splendidly  attired, 


KATIE  tale's  marriage.  205 

dazzling  the  eye  with  her  beauty  thus  adorned,  with 
every  thing  around  her  swimming  in  the  charmed  atmos- 
phere of  fairyland,  Katie  gave  her  hand  to  the  man 
her  ambition,  not  her  love,  had  chosen. 

But  certainly  ambition  could  not  have  made  a  better 
choice.  Already  she  saw  herself  surrounded  by  a  mag- 
nificent court,  of  which  she  was  the  acknowledged  and 
admired  queen.  The  favors  of  fortune  were  showered 
upon  her  ;  she  floated  luxuriously  upon  the  smooth  and 
glassy  wave  of  a  charmed  hfe. 

Nothing  was  wanting  in  the  whole  circle  of  her  out- 
ward existence  to  adorn  it  and  make  it  bright  with 
happiness. 

But  she  was  not  long  in  discovering  that  there  was 
.  something  wanting  within  her  own  breast. 

Her  friends  were  numerous ;  her  husband  tender, 
kind,  and  loving;  but  all  the  attentions  and  affections 
she  enjoyed  could  not  fill  her  heart. 

She  had  once  felt  its  chords  of  sympathy  moved  by 
a  skilful  touch  ;  she  had  known  the  heavenly  charm  of 
their  deep,  delicious  harmony ;  and  now  they  were 
silent,  motionless,  muffled,  so  to  speak,  in  silks  and 
satms.  These  chords  still  and  soundless,  her  heart  was 
dead ;  not^the  less  so  because  it  had  been  killed  by  a 
golden  shaft.  Having  known  and  felt  the  life  of  sym- 
pathy in  love  she  could  not  but  mourn  for  it  and  sigh 
18 


206  KATIE  tale's  marriage. 

for  it,  unconsoled  by  the  life  of  luxury.  In  short, 
Katie  in  time  became  magnificently  miserable,  splen- 
didly unhappy. 

Then  a  change  became  apparent  in  her  husband. 
He  could  not  long  remain  blind  to  the  fact  that  his  love 
was  not  returned.  He  sought  the  company  of  those 
whose  gayety  might  lead  him  to  forget  the  sorrow  and 
despair  of  his  soul.  This  shallow  joy  was  unsatisfactory, 
however ;  and,  impelled  by  powerful  longings  for  love, 
he  went  astray  to  warm  his  heart  by  a  strange  fire. 

Katie  saw  herself  now  in  the  midst  of  a  gorgeous  des- 
olation, burning  with  a  thirst  unquenchable  by  golden 
streams  that  flowed  around  her,  panting  with  a  hunger 
not  all  the  food  of  flattery  and  admiration  could  appease. 

She  reproached  her  husband  for  deserting  her  thus ; 
and  he  answered  with  angry  and  desperate  taunts  of 
deception  and  a  total  lack  of  love  which  smote  her 
conscience  heavily. 

"  You  do  not  care  for  me,"  he  cried ;  "  then  why  do 
you  complain  that  I  bestow  elsewhere  the  affections  you 
have  met  with  coldness  ?  " 

"  But  it  is  wrong,  sinful,"  Katie  remonstrated. 

"  Yes ;  I  know  it !  "  said  her  husband,  fiercely.  "  It 
Is  the  evil  fruit  of  an  evil  seed.  And  who  sowed  that 
seed  ?  "Who  gave  me  a  hand  without  a  heart  ?  Who 
became  a  sharer  of  my  fortune,  but  gave  me  no  share  in 


KATIE    tale's    marriage.  20) 

sympathy?  Who  devoted  me  to  the  fate  of  a  loving, 
unloved  husband  ?  Nay,  do  not  weep,  and  clasp  your 
hands,  and  sigh  and  sob  with  such  desperation  of  impa- 
tience ;  for  I  say  nothing  you  do  not  deserve  to  hear." 

"Very  well,"  said  Katie,  calming  herself;  "I  will 
not  complain.  I  will  not  say  your  reproaches  are  un- 
deserved. But,  granting  that  I  am  the  cold,  deceitful 
thing  you  call  me,  you  know  this  state  of  things  can- 
not continue." 

"Yes;  I  know  it." 

"WeU?" 

Mr.  Wellington's  brows  gathered  darkly;  his  eyes 
flashed  with  determination ;  his  lips  curled  with  scorn. 

"  I  have  made  up  my  mind,"  said  he,  "  that  we  should 
not  live  together  any  longer.  I  am  tired  of  being  called 
the  husband  of  the  splendid  Mrs.  Wellington.  I  will 
move  in  my  circle ;  you  shall  shine  in  yours.  I  will 
place  no  restraint  on  your  actions,  nor  shall  you  on  mine. 
We  wiU  be  free." 

"  But  the  world ! "  shrieked  Katie,  trembling. 

"  The  world  will  admire  you  the  same ;  and  what 
more  do  you  desire?"  asked  her  husband,  bitterly. 
"  This  marriage  of  hands,  and  not  of  hearts,  is  mock- 
ery. We  have  played  the  farce  long  enough.  Few 
know  the  conventional  meaning  of  the  term  husband 
and  wife  ;  but  do  you  know  what  it  should  mean  ?     Do 


208  KATIE    TALE*S    MARRIAGE. 

you  feel  that  the  only  true  union  is  that  of  love  and 
sympathy  ?  Then  enough  of  this  mummery  !  Farewell ! 
I  go  to  consult  friends  about  the  terms  of  a  separation. 
Nay,  do  not  tremble,  and  cry,  and  cling  to  me  now,  for  I 
shall  be  liberal  to  you.  As  much  of  my  fortune  shall 
be  yours  as  you  desire." 

He  pushed  her  from  him.  She  fell  upon  the  sofa. 
From  a  heart  torn  with  anguish  she  shrieked  aloud,  — 

"  Frank !  Frank !  why  did  I  send  you  from  me  ? 
Why  did  I  sacrifice  love  and  happiness  to  such  fate  as 
this  ?     Why  was  I  blind  until  sight  brought  me  misery  ?  " 

She  lay  upon  the  sofa,  sobbing  and  weeping  passion- 
ately. Gradually  her  grief  appeared  to  exhaust  itself; 
her  breathing  became  calm ;  her  eyes  and  cheeks  dry. 
Her  head  lay  peacefully  upon  her  arm,  over  which  swept 
her  dishevelled  tresses,  until  with  a  start  she  cried,  — 

"  Frank  !    O  Frank,  come  back  ! " 

"  Here  I  am ! "  said  a  soft  voice  by  her  side. 

She  raised  her  head — she  opened  her  astonished  eyes. 
Frank  was  standing  before  her ! 

"  You  have  been  asleep,"  he  said,  smiling  kindly. 

"Asleep?" 

"And  dreaming,  too,  I  should  say  —  not  pleasantly, 
either." 

"  Dreaming  ? "  murmured  Katie ;  "  and  is  it  all  a 
dream  ?  " 


KATIE  Yale's  marriage.  209 

"  I  hope  so,"  replied  Frank,  taking  her  hand.  "  You 
could  not  mean  to  send  me  from  you  so  cruelly,  I  know. 
So  I  waited  in  your  father's  study,  where  I  have  been 
talking  with  him  all  of  an  hour.  I  came  back  to  plead 
my  cause  once  more,  and  found  you  here  where  I  left 
you  —  asleep." 

"  O,  what  a  horrid  dream ! "  murmured  Katie,  rub- 
bing her  eyes.  "  It  was  so  like  a  terrible  reality  that  I 
shudder  now  to  think  of  it.     I  thought  I  was  married ! " 

"  And  would  that  be  so  horrible  ?  "  asked  Frank.  "  I 
hope,  then,  you  did  not  dream  you  were  married  to  me  !  " 

"  No ;  I  thought  I  gave  my  hand  without  my  heart." 

"  Then,  if  you  gave  me  your  hand,  it  would  not  be 
without  your  heart?" 

"No,  Frank,"  said  Katie,  her  bright  eyes  beaming 
happily  through  tears  ;  "  and  here  it  is." 

She  placed  her  fair  hand  in  his:  he  kissed  it  in 
transport. 

And   soon  after  there  was  a  real  marriage;    not  a 
splendid,  but  a  happy  one ;  not  followed  by  a  life  of 
luxury,  but  by  a  life  of  love  and  contentment ;  and  that 
was  the  marriage  of  Frank  Minot  and  Katie  Yale. 
18* 


FAITH. 

Tis  enough  that  I  have  loved  thee 

And  that  I  love  thee  now ; 
Tis  enough  that  thou  hast  proved  me 

And  won  my  spirit's  vow. 
There's  a  bond  of  truth  between  us 

Eternal  as  'tis  dear ; 
And  its  purity  will  screen  us 

From  the  rebuke  we  fear. 

Dost  thou  need  a  surer  token 

That  my  faith  is  fully  gained  ? 
'Tis  enough  that  I  have  spoken 

With  sympathy  unfeigned. 
Temptation  well  hath  proved  me  — 

So  let  it  prove  me  now : 
*Tis  enough  that  /  have  loved  thee  — 

That  thou  hast  won  my  vow. 

(210) 


AN  HOUR  IN  A  DAGUERRIAN   GALLERY. 

BT    SARAH    ROBERTS. 

I  STROLLED  the  other  day  into  a  daguerrian  gallery ; 
and,  after  amusing  myself  with  looking  round  on  the 
r  umerous  faces,  old  and  young,  beautiful  and  ugly,  that 
decorated  the  walls,  and  conjuring  up  the  various  char- 
actei-s  they  represented,  I  threw  myself  on  a  comer  of 
the  sofa  and  for  the  sake  of  amusement  watched  the 
many  groups  that  one  after  another  passed  in  and 
out 

"This  is  truly  the  democratic,  the  levelling  age  of 
every  thing,"  said  J  to  myself.  "  In  years  gone  by,  to 
procure  the  precious  likeness  of  a  friend  was  only  in 
the  power  of  those  who  had  great  wealth  at  command ; 
but  now,  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  for  a  single  dollar, 
the  humblest  citizen  can  possess  the  treasure.  "Won- 
derful discovery !     Kind,  blessed  power  ! " 

I  was  roused  from  my  reflections  by  hearing  a  slow, 
heavy  footfall  on  the  stairs.     The  door  opened ;  and  a 

(211) 


212        AN   HOUR   IN   A   DAGUERRIAN    GALLERY. 

young  man  with  an  honest,  sunburnt  face,  in  a  sailor's 
best  dress,  fathom  of  black  ribbon  and  all,  with  a  reeling 
gait  as  if  just  from  shipboard,  entered.  A  smile  of  great 
satisfaction  beamed  on  his  broad,  good-natured  face; 
and  he  was  leading  by  the  hand  a  small,  humble,  quiet- 
looking  old  lady,  poorly  but  very  neatly  dressed.  He 
seated  her  most  tenderly  in  a  chair  quite  near  me ;  and 
at  a  second  glance  I  perceived  she  was  bhnd.  She  ap- 
peared to  be  very  old,  and  trembled  much  from  fatigue 
and  weakness.  The  sailor  looked  upon  her  with  much 
affection  and  delight,  and,  approaching  the  artist,  said,  — 
"  Can  you  make  a  picture  of  her,  mister  ?  I  hope 
she  is  not  too  old,  or  that  her  being  bhnd  won't  make 
any  difference ;  her  eyes  are  open,  you  see,  and  look  as 
good  as  yours  or  mine,  though  the  dear  old  soul  has 
been  blind  these  twenty  years.  Please  to  try,  sir ;  for 
you  see  she  is  my  mother ;  and  I  have  plenty  of  money 
to  pay  for  it ;  and  I  must  have  her  dear  old  face  to  take 
away  with  me ;  and  she  wants  you  to  take  mine,  for  me 
to  leave  with  her  —  for  I  am  just  going  to  take  a  long 
voyage,  sir.  Though  she  cannot  see,  she  says  she  can 
hold  it  in  her  hand  and  kiss  it,  and  know  that  it  is  me. 
I  am  her  only  child,  sir  —  all  she  has  left  out  of  a  hus- 
band and  ten  children.  She  wept  herself  blind,  they 
told  me,  when  I  was  an  infant ;  for  I  am  the  youngest, 
and  all  the  world  to  her  now." 


AN  HOUK  IN  A  DAGUERIUAN  GALLERY.    213 

Jack*s  garrulity  was  stopped  by  the  artist's  requesting 
him  to  seat  his  mother  before  the  camera ;  and  he  was 
loud  in  his  praises  at  the  success. 

Next  entered  —  O,  such  a  pleasant  group !  —  a  young 
couple,  followed  by  a  nurse  bearing  a  lovely  child  of 
about  a  year  and  a  half  old  in  her  arms.  Well  might 
they  wish  to  have  perpetuated  the  remembrance  of  such 
a  beautiful  child  —  large,  dark,  full  eyes ;  soft,  golden 
curls ;  and  that  expression  of  angelic  purity  seen  only 
in  infancy.  A  fanciful  little  chair,  richly  carved  and 
cushioned,  was  brought  in  to  hold  the  treasure.  How 
happy  they  all  looked !  The  mother  was  very  youtliful 
and  scarcely  less  beautiful  than  the  child.  "  How  long 
will  this  felicity  last  ? "  thought  I.  "  Will  this  sweet 
child  be  torn  from  their  fond  embrace  and  consigned  to 
an  early  grave,  or  will  he  in  after  years  bring  agony 
and  shame  to  the  hearts  of  those  who  have  cherished 
him  ?  Or  will  all  their  fond  imaginings  be  realized  ? 
God  only  knows.  How  pleased  tliey  looked  as  they 
propped  up  the  little  darling  in  his  pretty  chair !  —  the 
young  mother,  now  arranging  this  curl,  now  the  dress, 
now  displaying  to  more  advantage  the  dimpled  shoulder 
and  arm,  and  now  the  tiny  naked  foot,  encouraging  by 
tender  words  the  timid  infant.  All  was  at  last  satisfac- 
torily arranged ;  and  I  heai'd  the  parents  say,  when  it 
was  finished,  it  was  almost  as  pretty  as  wee  WiUie.    My 


214        AN   HOUR   IN    A   DAGUERRIAN    GALLERY. 

blessing  went  with  the  sweet  child  and  the  happy  pair 
as  they  left  the  room. 

A  tall,  gentlemanly  man  now  entered,  holding  in  his 
arms  a  delicate,  frail-looking  little  girl  about  four  years 
old.  He  was  dressed  in  a  suit  of  deep  mourning  ;  and 
the  sad  expression  of  his  refined  and  noble  countenance 
told  that  grief  was  in  his  heart.  "  A  widower,"  thought 
I,  "  and  his  only  child ; "  and  I  think  I  was  not  mista- 
ken. The  little  creature  was  most  richly  and  exquisitely 
dressed ;  and  her  almost  baby  face  seemed  also  to  wear 
an  expression  of  sadness.  "  No  mother,  poor  little  one," 
mused  I ;  "  you  have  lost  what  can  never  be  replaced." 
As  if  in  reply  to  my  thoughts,  she  clung  closely  round 
her  father's  neck.  "  Ah,  love  him,  cling  closely  to  him 
while  you  can  ;  man's  nature  is  not  woman's  ;  business, 
pleasure,  power,  and  other  love  than  yours  will  soon  fill 
his  heai't,  now  yours  alone.  Other  ties  will  be,  his  ;  the 
first  love  may  pass  into  forgetfulness  and  her  child  into 
neglect ;  but  I  hope  better  things  for  thee,  sweet  Nelly," 
—  for  so  her  father  called  her ;  "  but  should  the  time 
come,  this  miniature  of  thy  delicate,  loving,  tender  child- 
hood may  bring  back  the  warm  blood  to  his  estranged 
heart 

"  Country  lovers,"  I  said  to  myself,  as  the  door, 
opened,  and  a  sunburnt,  hard-working  man  entered,  all 
in  his  Sunday  best,  which  made  him  feel  and  move 


AN    HOUR   IN    A    DAGUERRIAN    GALLERY.         215 

rather  awkwardly,  followed  by  a  roi^jd,  cherry-cheeked 
damsel,  looking  modestly  on  the  ground,  with  many  an 
extra  ribbon  and  flower  decorating  her  really  rustic 
beauty.     After  various  preliminaries,  — 

"  How  will  you  be  taken  ?  "  inquired  the  artist. 

"0,  side  by  side,  of  course,"  answered  the  man. 
"  Susey  and  I  always  sits  side  by  side  whenever  we  can ; 
don't  we,  Susey  ?  '*  said  he,  taking  her  hand  with  great 
gallantry  to  lead  her  to  the  seat.  "Why,  don't  the 
tyown's  folks  know  that  Susey  and  I  has  kept  company 
DOW  going  on  these  two  year  ?  I  don't  like  such  leetle 
uns  as  them,"  he  continued,  pointing  to  some  of  the  min- 
iatures. "  Make  us  pretty  big,  can't  you  ?  If  you  must 
stint  either  on  us,  why,  stint  me  a  leetle  and  don't  stint 
Susey,  that's  all.  I  don't  want  to  lose  none  on  her ; 
she  is  too  hamdsome  for  that  —  ain't  you,  Susey  ?  "  said 
he,  giving  her  a  loud  smack  on  her  rosy  cheek,  which 
brought  the  blood  rushing  into  Susey's  face. 

"  If  you  do  that  agin,  John,"  she  said,  "  you  sha'n't 
have  my  face  made  on  your  picter  at  all;  and  how 
you'll  look  sitting  all  alone  on  a  picter  —  such  a  homely 
man  as  you  are !  " 

"  That  would  be  bad  enough,  to  be  sure,"  said  John. 
"  Well,  I  will  wait  until  we  get  home  to  give  one  to  the 
other  cheek." 

"  Please  sit  perfectly  still,"  requested  the  artist. 


216         AN   HOUR   IN    A    DAGUERRIAN    GALLERY, 

*•  Hand  so  we  are,"  answered  John.  "  But  I  suppose 
we  can  talk  a  leetle,  just  to  kill  time,  as  I  suppose  well 
have  to  sit  here  till  sundown." 

"  Please  not  even  to  speak,"  said  the  artist. 

"  Well,  that's  pretty  hard,  sitting  so  nigh  Susey ;  but 
I'll  try,"  was  the  answer. 

They  sat  perfectly  quiet,  hand  in  hand ;  and  in  the 
usual  time  the  plate  was  taken  from  the  camera. 

"  You  may  rise  now,  if  you  choose,"  said  the  artist. 

"  What  for  ?  "  asked  the  man.  "  I  told  you  we  want- 
ed to  be  taken  sitting  side  by  side  and  hand  in  hand,  so 
as,  when  we  grow  old,  we  might  remember  how  we 
courted  under  the  old  apple  tree  and  by  the  fireside. 
If  you  can't  take  us  to  suit  ourselves,  I'll  hire  the  job 
done  somewhere  else." 

"It  is  done,"  answered  the  artist.  "Wait  a  few 
moments." 

"  Done !  That  you  can't  make  me  believe,"  said 
John.  "  'Stonishing  how  these  city  folks  thinks  we 
country  folks  are  all  fools ;  but  I'll  let  you  know,  mis- 
ter, I  am  called  a  rale  cute  un  in  our  parts.  *  There's  no 
cheating  John  Simpson,*  every  body  says.  Susey  and  I 
got  up  early  this  morning ;  and  I  got  Tom  to  do  my 
work,  and  Susey  got  Molly  to  do  hern.  And  a  rale  lot 
we  both  have  to  do ;  for  Susey  is  a  rale  smart  un  about 
house,  and  so  is  I  about  the  farm ;  and  we  rode  four- 


AN   HOUR   IN    A    DAGUERRIAN    GALLERY.         217 

teen  miles  to  come  here  to  get  our  faces  made,  because 
we  sawed  un  that  you  took  here  of  Judy  Smith  and 
Phil  Hayes  —  only  Judy  ain't  half  so  harndsome  as  my 
Susey ;  and  now  you  want  to  cheat  us  out  of  it,  hurry- 
ing of  us  over  in  this  style  as  if  we  wam't  nobody.  I'll 
pay  you,  mister,  just  as  much  as  your  fine  city  folks  that 
owns  these  faces  all  over  your  walls;  and  one  folk's 
money  is  as  good  as  another  folk's  money.  I  choose  to 
set  a  proper  spell.  Why,  I  just  got  to  putting  on  my 
best  'spression  —  the  one  Susey  told  me  to :  kyind  o'  so ; 
and  you  say  we  may  get  up.  'Taint  fair,  nohow  you 
can  fix  it.  Well,  mister,  I  sha'n't  pay  whole  price  with- 
out I  sits  long  enough  to  pay  for  it." 

The  good-natured  artist  looked  much  amused,  and 
could  not  refrain  from  laughter. 

"  You  may  laugh,  sir,"  said  John  ;  "  but  we  country 
folks  knows  a  thing  or  two.  You  can't  cheat  an  old 
crow." 

The  artist  left  the  man  talking  to  finish  the  daguerre- 
otypes, and  in  due  time  returned  and  presented  it  to 
him. 

"  Land  o'  mercy,  Susey ! "  he  exclaimed,  his  face 
beaming  with  delight, "  if  there  ain't  you  and  me !  How 
did  you  get  us,  mister  ?  I  know  Judy  and  Phil  told 
you  how  we  looked  when  they  was  down ;  and  so  you 
got  it  all  ready  for  us  to  surprise  us  with.  Well,  you 
19 


218         AN   HOUR    IN    A   DAGUERRIAN    GALLERY. 

have  just  hit  it ;  and  you  are  a  bright  un.  Shake  hands, 
mister.  O  land,  how  natrel  we  do  look  —  'specially 
Susey  !  Susey,  you  are  a  beautiful  picter ;  and  I  ain't 
none  of  the  ugliest  —  bees  I,  Susey,  with  my  Sabbadays 
on  ?  I  looks  like  a  gentleman,  for  sartin,  'cept  that 
my  hands  is  rather  bigger  than  some  I've  seen;  but 
that's  a  trifle.  But  there's  no  lady  in  the  land  can  beat 
you  for  good  looks,  Susey,  any  day.  Well,  it  wam't 
fair  in  Phil  and  Judy  to  tell  you  how  we  looked.  I 
sha'n't  tell  you  how  any  more  on  us  looks  down  our 
way,  because  you'll  be  taking  on  'em  to  sell ;  and  nobody 
wants  their  faces  sold  all  over  the  world  for  folks  to 
make  their  fortins  by.  How  much  longer  must  we  stay 
here,  mister  ?  Bein's  you  got  our  picter  all  ready  for  us, 
can  we  go  putty  soon  ?  " 

"  Certainly,"  said  the  artist,  "  as  soon  as  you  have 
paid  for  it." 

"Well,  upon  the  whole,  sir,"  said  the  countryman, 
pulling  out  a  small  greasy  wallet,  "  I'm  'bliged  to  you  for 
getting  it  ready  agin  we  come ;  only,  if  you've  got  any 
more  on  'em,  just  leave  out  Susey,  —  can't  you? — or 
else  all  the  fellers  in  town  will  be  a-comin'  down  to  find 
her  out,  and  may  be  turn  her  head  and  get  her  away 
from  me.  Sich  things  has  happened  in  books,  you 
know  —  I'm  a  leetle  of  a  scholar,"  he  continued,  giving 
the  artist  the  squint  as  if  he  meant  he  was  a  good  deal 


AN   HOUR   IN    A   DAGUERBIAN    GALLERY.        219 

Df  a  one.  "  "Well,  Susej  dear,  we  shall  have  a  nice  frolic 
to-day  in  the  cit j  —  time  enough  for  us  to  see  the  wax- 
work, and  the  dancing  monkeys,  and  the  giant,  and  the 
lamed  pig,  and  get  some  oysters,  and  ice  cream,  and  all 
the  good  things  city  folks  eat.  Come  along,  Susey,  my 
angel ;  we  will  make  a  day  of  it.  Good  day,  mister ; 
when  this  is  worn  out  we  will  call  agin." 

As  they  were  bowing  and  courtesying  hand  in  hand 
out  of  the  door  backwards  in  true  country  style  they 
stumbled  on  a  group  of  schoolgirls,  who  came  bounding 
into  the  room  in  the  heyday  of  spirits  and  glee.  There 
were  six  of  them  —  what  a  pretty  group  ! 

"  You  must  take  us  all  on  one  plate,  Mr,  W.,"  said 
several,  speaking  at  once. 

"  I  want  to  sit  by  Kate,"  said  one. 

"And  Cora  and  I  want  to  sit  together,"  said  an- 
other. 

The  artist  glanced  with  pleasure  at  the  young  fair 
faces,  and  asked  them  to  be  seated. 

"  You  must  group  us  in  the  way  we  shall  look  the 
best,  and  tell  us  how  to'  sit  gracefully,"  said  another  little 
fairy,  throwing  herself  in  a  chair  in  the  most  graceful 
attitude  possible.  How  long  they  were  arranging  them- 
eelves  !  The  artist  called  upon  me  for  an  opinion  as  to 
the  grouping ;  ani  i  was  glad  of  the  chance  to  scan  the 
bright  and  lovely  faces.     We  succeeded  in  arranging 


220         AN    HOUR    IN    A    DAGUERRIAN    GALLERY. 

them  satisfactorily  to  all ;  but  several  attempts  failed. 
Cora's  large  dark  eyes  looked  small  and  light,  or  Ber- 
tha's soft  blue  ones  dark  and  large ;  or  Kate  laughed  at 
the  wrong  time  and  declared  her  pretty  mouth  looked 
like  a  trapdoor ;  Minna's  was  squint,  or  Ellen's  nose  was 
crooked.  It  was  evident  they  came  there  as  much  for 
a  frolic  as  for  any  thing.  When  they  had  almost  ex- 
hausted the  artist's  paiience  they  contrived  to  sit  still, 
and  procured  an  accurate  and  beautiful  picture.  I 
would  have  liked  it  myself,  and  asked  the  saucy  little 
things  most  humbly  to  sit  for  one  for  my  benefit.  But 
even  at  fourteen  the  woman  is  too  chary  of  her  favors 
to  throw  them  away  lightly;  and  I  was  peremptorily 
and  unanimously  refused.  How  gayly  they  chatted  and 
laughed  as  they  descended  the  stairs !  I  hstened  until 
the  last  sound  of  their  girlish  voices  died  away,  and 
sighed  ;  for  woman's  lot  was  on  them. 

"  How  short,"  thought  I,  "  is  the  step  from  these  gay, 
merry  creatures  to  the  sober,  careworn  matron  !  What 
destiny  is  in  store  for  them  ?  Will  an  early  grave  soon 
close  over  one  of  those  fair  young  forms,  and  the  foul 
worm  riot  on  its  loveliness  ?  Or  will  a  long  life  of  toil 
and  care,  of  joys  and  sorrows,  be  the  portion  of  all  ? 
Their  lots  will  be  various.  Who  will  have  the  tender, 
loving  heart  given  her  in  return  for  her  own  deep,  well- 
ing love?      Which  of  them  will  waste  away  through 


AN   HOUR    IN    A   DAGUERRIAN    GALLERY.         221 

eold  neglect,  and  pledge  her  trusting  love  to  a  deceiver  ? 
Which  of  them  will  early  wear  the  widow's  sombre 
weeds,  and  weep  in  the  dayspring  of  her  joys  over  their 
grave  ?  Which  will  in  agony  consign  to  the  earth  the 
sweetest  treasures  of  her  home,  and  in  childless  misery 
wend  her  solitary  way  ?  Who  will  rise  a  brilliant  star 
in  our  literary  horizon  ?  I  thought  of  Cora's  intellect- 
ual brow  and  dark  flashing  eye.  Who  will  be  the  weak 
devotee  of  fashion  and  folly?  Kate  appeared  to  me, 
with  her  already  coquettish  smile,  chestnut  curls,  and 
varying  hazel  eye.  Who  will  walk  in  the  broad  and 
wid  3  way  that  leadeth  to  destruction  ?  And  who  will 
meekly  follow  the  Lamb  whithersoever  he  goeth? 
Should  I  see  these  fair  creatures  twenty  years  hence, 
even  then,  before  life's  allotted  span  were  half  told,  I 
should  not  probably  recognize  one  of  them ;  hardly  a 
trace  of  their  youth  and  girlish  beauty  would  be  visible. 
God  help  them  !  God  in  mercy  keep  those  sweet  young 
creatures  ! "  I  mentally  ejaculated,  as  my  attention  was 
attracted  by  two  interesting  figures  just  entering.  One 
was  an  old  man,  very  old,  but  still  tall,  erect,  and  mus- 
cular, his  hair  white  and  long,  his  eye  undimmed  and  of 
a  calm,  holy  expression,  as  if  he  already,  though  through 
a  glass  darkly,  discerned  the  golden  gates  of  the  New 
Jerusalem  which  he  must  shortly  enter.  He  was  led 
oy  a  fair  young  girl,  of  sixteen  summers  I  should  say, 
19* 


222         AN    HOUR    IN    A    DAGUKRRIAN    (JALLERT, 

in  a  dress  of  pure  white,  herself  the  picture  and  emblem 
of  all  that  was  pure  and  lovely. 

"  Gertrude  will  have  a  daguerreotype  of  her  old 
grandfather,  Mr.  W.,"  said  the  old  man;  "and,  on 
condition  that  she  sits  with  me,  I  have  consented  to  have 
it  taken.     But  the  truth  is,  I  can  refuse  her  nothing." 

"  Who  could  ?  "  thought  I,  as  I  gazed  at  the  modest 
face  and  beseeching  eye  of  the  gentle  Gertrude.  And 
what  a  contrast  they  were,  as  they  sat  there  together ! 
Gertrude  took  a  low  seat  at  her  grandfather's  knee  — 
her  pretty  head  resting  on  her  tiny  hand,  her  fair  curls 
arranging  themselves  as  they  liked,  and  they  certainly 
did  like  to  arrange  themselves  in  the  most  picturesque 
style  imaginable.  Nothing  could  be  more  touching  or 
striking  than  the  contrast,  or  more  beautiful.  The  fine, 
noble-looking  old  man,  with  his  snow-white  locks,  broad, 
high  brow,  and  heaven-searching  eye,  just  passing  away 
to  the  world  unseen,  ready  to  be  offered,  the  time  of  his 
departure  at  hand,  life's  toils  and  labors  over,  its  wreath, 
its  honors,  its  strife  nothing  to  him,  passing  away.  She 
in  her  almost  infantine  beauty,  just  on  the  threshold  of 
life,  full  of  hope  and  freshness,  every  thing  wearing  the 
rose-colored  tint  of  early  morning,  no  cloud,  no  care, 
fearing  nothing,  hoping  all  things ;  the  one  just  entering 
the  world  of  sense,  the  other  the  world  of  spirits  — 
which  was  the  most  fearful  ? 


AN  HOUR  IN  A  DAGUERRIAN  6ALLERT.   223 

But  who  is  this  walking  in  so  daintily  and  so  painfully 
in  his  pinched  mirror-topped  hoots  ?  Truly  a  Broadway 
exquisite  come  to  have  his  pretty  face  perpetuated. 
Deluded  puppy !  wishing  to  perpetuate  an  empty  brain ! 
Mr.  W.  looks  quite  puzzled ;  for  he,  plain  man,  can 
hardly  understand  the  fashionable  lisp. 

"  Mithter  W.,  I  have  thopped  in  to  avail  mythelf  of 
your  renowned  thkill  to  obtain  a  daguerreotype  of  my- 
thelf." 

"Be  seated,  if  you  please,  sir,"  said  Mr.  W.  "  I  am 
now  at  leisure." 

"  In  a  moment,"  replied  the  dandy.  He  went  to  the 
mirror  to  see  if  all  was  comme  ilfauL  "  Dear  me ! "  he 
exclaimed,  "  how  unbecomingly  Mothemp  hath  arranged 
my  hair  and  cut  my  muthtache  to-day !  I  declare,  the 
curl  on  my  left  temple  ith  cropped  tho  clothely  that  the 
effect  is  odiuth,  and  the  therenity  of  my  expression  is 
entirely  thpoiled  by  the  turn  of  my  muthtache.  Indeed, 
I  wath  not  aware  of  thethe  imperfectionth  when  I  en- 
tered ;  and  I  now  pertheive  that  my  crethent  ring,  which 
dithplays  my  hand  more  advantageouthly,  ith  left  at 
home.  Alath !  how  blind  I  have  been !  My  collar  ith 
one  of  lath  monthth  cut ;  and  the  air,  being  to  the  north- 
eath,  hath  given  my  complexion  quite  a  thallow  tinge. 
Excuthe  me,  Mithter  W.,  to-day ;  I  will  prepare  my- 
thelf more  becomingly  and  call  again  ath  thoon  atl»  the 


224        AN  HOUR   IN    A   DAGUERRIAN    GALLERY. 

curl  on  my  left  temple  hath  obtained  a  becoming  length, 
and  when  the  wind  ith  at  the  wetht ;  and,  ath  I  path,  I 
will  tliop  and  rebuke  my  barber  for  making  me  look  tho 
like  a  shopboy.  Good  morning,  thir ; "  and,  drawmg  on 
his  white  kids,  with  his  tortoise-shell  walking  stick  be- 
neath his  arm,  this  exquisite  piece  of  mortality  and  im- 
mortality left  the  room. 

He  was  quite  discomposed  by  being  run  over  at  the 
door  by  two  sturdy  little  fellows,  and  a  large,  black,  shag- 
gy Newfoundland  dog;  they  all  came  running  in  to- 
gether. 

"  O  Mr.  W. ! "  exclaimed  the  eldest ;  "  father  says 
we  may  have  Bruno's  daguerreotype  taken;  will  you 
please  take  it  ?  " 

"  If  Bruno  can  sit  still  I  will,"  answered  Mr.  W. 

"  He  can  sit  as  still  as  a  man  ;  he  has  been  practising 
for  two  months  and  has  learned  his  lesson  well.  Ever 
since  he  pulled  httle  sister  Amy  from  the  water,  when 
we  were  in  the  country  two  months  since,  we  promised 
him  he  should  have  his  daguerreotype  taken ;  and  he 
understands  it  as  well  as  we  do.  Little  Amy  was 
reaching  for  waterlilies,  one  day,  and  slipped  into  the 
water,  and  would  have  been  drowned  if  Bruno  had  not 
jumped  in  and  taken  her  out.  He  drew  her  out  very 
carefully  and  laid  her  on  the  bank,  and  then  went  to  the 
house  and  tried  by  signs  to  make  mother  follow  him. 


AN   HOUK   IN    A   DAGUERRIAN    GALLERY.         225 

Mother  was  very  busy,  and  turned  him  from  the  room 
Beveral  times ;  but  he  always  came  back  and  looked  at 
her  so  beseechingly,  and  pulled  her  dress,  and  looked 
towards  the  garden,  that  finally  mother  to  his  great  joy 
followed  him,  and  found  our  dear  little  Amy  all  drip- 
ping with  water,  lying  on  the  grass,  and  just  recovering 
from  her  terror.  Father  says  Bruno  saved  her  life,  and 
we  all  want  his  daguerreotype.  Come  here,  sir,"  he 
said  to  Bruno,  "  and  sit  for  your  picture." 

Bruno  immediately  obeyed,  and  seated  himself  in  the 
most  becoming  attitude  for  his  likeness ;  and,  to  the 
great  delight  of  the  children,  Mr.  W.  declared  he  did 
not  even  once  wink  his  large  human  eyes  during  his 
Bitting. 

"  Bruno  is  more  of  a  man  than  the  Broadway  exqui- 
site, though  he  has  four  legs  and  is  ranked  among  *  the 
beasts  that  perish,' "  I  said  to  myself,  as  I  followed  the 
little  fellows  and  the  noble  animal  down  stairs  and 
walked  thoughtfully  homewards,  musing  on  this  short 
but  varied  picture  from  life's  drama. 


CHRISTMAS  THOUGHTS. 

Christmas  is  here  ;  and  what  doth  it  bring  ? 

What  gifts  do  hope  and  memory  bear  ? 
Rise  our  spirits  on  rapture's  wing, 

Or  sink  we  down  on  the  couch  of  care  ? 

How  have  we  learned,  in  the  months  gone  by, 

Our  yearly  task  of  trial  and  sorrow  ? 
How  oft  have  we  cured  disappointment's  sigh 

With  the  powerful  faith  that  enchants  to-morrow  ? 

Christmas  is  here ;  and  the  trusting  heart, 
That  hath  suffered  meekly  its  share  of  pain. 

Must  measure  the  worth  of  hfe's  fairest  part. 
And  count  the  best  links  of  affection's  chain. 

We  all  shall  discover  great  Ccause  for  praise 

If  we  turn  from  the  spell  of  joy's  broken  dreams, 

And,  fixing  on  Christ  our  constant  gaze, 

Move  on  to  the  home  whence  his  mercy  beams. 

(226) 


CHRISTMAS   THOUGHTS.  227 

Though  Christmas  with  Christmas  charms  hath  come, 
Though  music  and  fiction  hold  Christmas  store, 

Though  the  Christmas  roses  and  holly  bloom, 
They  find  me  asking  for  something  more. 

A  pensiveness  mingles  with  eyery  thought, 
Shadowing  gently  the  smiles  of  mirth. 

Until  I  muse  on  the  tidings  brought 
By  angels  to  man  of  a  Savior's  birth. 

Then  without  drawback  my  spirit  rejoices  ; 

Perfectly  happy  is  Christmas  tide  ; 
I  join  the  sweet  choir  of  celestial  voices 

That  carol  of  Jesus  on  every  side. 

"  Glory  to  God ! "  be  unceasingly  given ; 

Glad  hallelujahs  the  universe  fill ; 
Whilst  we  who  are  heirs  of  the  kingdom  of  heaven 

Blume  the  way  thither  with  "  peace  and  good  wilL" 


LOOK   BEFORE  THEE. 

Look  before  thee  ;  gaze  on  high ; 
Fix  on  heaven  thine  upward  eye ; 
Heed  not  where  the  earthworms  lie. 

Look  before  thee  ;  guided  still 
By  an  all-controlling  will, 
To  the  river  speeds  the  riU. 

Look  before  thee ;  onward  ever 
(O'er  it  though  the  shadows  quiver 
Slumberously)  hastes  the  river. 

Lo,  where  —  thundering  from  afar  — 
Glory  mounts  her  shining  car, 
Calls  the  nations  to  the  war. 

Freedom  lifts  her  mailed  hand. 
Waves  on  high  a  flaming  brand, 
Sends  a  warning  through  the  land. 


LOOK   BEFORE   THEE. 

Forward !  'tis  the  trumpet's  clang ; 
Forward !  there  the  clarion  rang ; 
And  the  war  horse  forward  sprang. 

Look  before  thee ;  'twere  in  vain 
Now  to  trace  thy  steps  again ; 
"  Tarry  not  in  all  the  plain ! " 

Forward !  time  is  speeding  fast ; 
Forward !  danger  waits  the  last ; 
Forward  till  the  course  be  passed. 

Onward  till  the  work  is  done ; 
Onward  till  the  race  is  run ; 
Onward  till  the  goal  is  won. 

So  shall  thy  spirit  soar  on  high, 
Shake  its  glad  wings,  and  speed  the  cry, 
^  Forward ! "  through  eternity ! 
20 


THE  IMAGE  OF  LOVE  IN  CLAY. 


BY    MRS.    WHITE. 


"It  is  very  pretty,  very  pretty  indeed,"  said  Abel 
Hardstaff,  looking  from  the  ceiling  with  its  painted 
flower  wreath  and  plaster  of  paris  Cupid,  suspended, 
with  outspread  wings,  from  the  centre  —  a  myth,  antici- 
patory, as  it  seemed  to  the  calculating  bachelor,  which 
had  better  have  been  left  out  in  his  friend's  matrimonial 
preparations. 

"  Very  pretty  !  But  I  think,  had  I  been  hurried  into 
asking  a  woman  to  marry  me  at  a  time  when  I  was 
short  of  money  and  out  of  work,  I  should  not  have 
spent  on  mere  ornament  what  you  may  want  in  a  day 
or  two  for  absolute  necessaries." 

"Pshaw!  a  mere  trifle,"  ejaculated  Nathan  Slack, 
with  a  movement  of  the  head  which  seemed  to  throw 
off  with  a  jerk  the  necessity  of  his  friend's  censures. 
"  Besides,"  he  added,  with  a  spruce  air,  "  one  does  not 
get  married  every  day." 

(230) 


THE   IMAGE    OF   LOVE   IN    CLAT  231 

"  Just  SO,"  responded  Abel,  gravely ;  "  but  every  day 
afterwards  you  will  find  that  you  are  married,  and  that, 
with  working  men  like  you  and  I,  it  is  best  beginning  as 
we  intend  to  go  on ;  the  importance  of  the  wedding  day, 
in  my  estimation,  is  only  as  it  affects  the  days  to  come. 
And  now  let  me  look  at  the  other  room.  Have  you  got 
a  Cupid  there  also  ?  " 

"  No,"  exclaimed  Nathan,  delighted  to  turn  the  con- 
versation from  prudence  to  mythology.  "My  Venus 
will  bring  him  with  her ;  for,  between  ourselves,  Abel, 
she  is  the  sweetest  girl  I  have  ever  seen ;  such  perfect 
features,  and  blue  eyes,  and  bright  hair,  and  such  a  com- 
plexion !  I  flatter  myself  I  have  met  on  the  stage " 
(Mr.  Slack  had  been  a  scene  painter,  and  loved  to 
consider  himself  as  belonging  to  the  profession)  "as 
much  and  varied  beauty  as  most  men ;  but  my  little 
wife  (that  is  to  be)  surpasses  all." 

"  It  is  only  right  that  she  should  in  your  eyes,"  ob- 
served Abel  Hardstaff,  dryly ;  "  but  I  think  you  seem  to 
have  made  her  prettiness  the  most  important  matter  in 
your  estimation  of  her.  Is  she  good  tempered,  sensible, 
industrious  ?  " 

"  She  is  a  first-rate  needlewoman,  I  understand,"  said 
Nathan  ;  "  and  as  for  her  temper  being  good,  I  can  swear 
for  it.  Her  sensibleness,"  he  added,  with  a  little  laugh 
at  the  conceit,  (not    the   less   conceited  for  all   that,) 


282  THE   IMAGE    OF   LOVE   IN    CLAT. 

"I  think  she  has  shown  in  accepting  your  humble 
servant." 

I  am  afraid,  in  Abel  Hardstaflf's  opinion,  this  was 
any  thing  but  a  convincing  proof  of  the  quahty  in  ques- 
tion ;  for  he  said  nothing,  but,  walking  into  the  small,  ill- 
furnished,  and  ill-ventilated  bed  room,  surveyed  it  with  a 
dissatisfied  air,  and  came  out  again. 

"  There  isn't  much  in  it,"  said  Nathan,  deprecatingly ; 
**  but  we  shall  get  things  about  us  by  and  by." 

"  There  are  no  drawers,  and  the  bed's  a  flock  one,'* 
rejoined  Hardstaff.  "You  haven't  studied  your  wife's 
comfort  much." 

"  O,  she  must  make  shift  as  weU  as  others  have 
done,"  replied  the  scene  painter.  "  Rome  wasn't  built 
in  a  day." 

"  Then  why  not  have  begun  these  here  ?  "  continued 
Abel,  looking  up  once  more  at  the  wreath  and  the  Cupid. 
"  You  are  going  the  way  to  make  your  wife  a  slattern. 
Women  can't  keep  their  clothes  to  rights  nor  their  hus- 
band's either  if  they  have  no  place  to  put  them  away ; 
and,  instead  of  reserving  your  best  room  for  the  use  of 
your  acquaintance,  why  not  have  made  this  the  bed 
room,  and  nestled  all  the  neatness  and  cosiness  you  could 
into  it  ?  Here  you  have  breathing  space  and  light,  and 
there  you  have  scarcely  room  to  put  a  chair  on  any  side 
between  the  bed  and  the  wall ;  and  whatever  light  and 


THE   IMAGE    OF    LOVE    IN    CLAT.  233 

air  there  would  be  is  kept  off  by  the  narrow,  closed-in 
yard  on  which  it  looks." 

"  What !  and  would  you  have  that  the  parlor,  then  ?  " 
exclaimed  Nathan,  now  thoroughly  annoyed  at  what  he 
deemed  the  hypercritical  remarks  of  his  friend. 

"  Rather  than  have  it  in  the  bed  room,  decidedly,"  said 
Abel.  "  Why,  if  you  and  your  wife  had  the  best  health 
and  tempers  in  the  world,  that  room  would  be  enough 
to  destroy  them.  Two  persons  shut  up  in  that  space 
would  exhaust  all  the  wholesome  air  it  could  contam  be- 
fore half  the  night  was  passed;  in  which  case  you 
would  rise  feeling  lassitude  and  low  spirits  and  a  sense 
of  imperfect  rest,  which  naturally  tends  to  irritability  of 
temper,  loss  of  appetite,  and  finally  absolute  ill  healt^i." 

"Well,"  exclaimed  Nathan,  "  if  I  had  known  you 
were  going  to  preach  me  such  a  sermon,  I  should  have 
taken  care  not  to  have  asked  your  opinion  about  the 
matter." 

"  That  is  showing  me  your  value  of  the  opinion,  at 
all  events,"  said  Hardstaff,  smiling.  "  And  yet,  Nathan, 
it  is  because  I  feel  deeply  interested  in  the  step  you  are 
taking  that  I  speak  so  freely  to  you.  I  know  May  Allen, 
(and  his  eye  softened  and  his  voice  grew  lower  as  he 
spoke ;)  I  know  her  to  be  gentle  and  kindly  in  her  dispo- 
sition, and  industrious  and  beautiful ;  but  her  meekness 
will  become  reserve  if  not  nursed  into  strength  by 
20* 


234  THE    IMAGE    OF    LOVE    IN    CLAY. 

perfect  confidence,  and  truths  and  kindness ;  and  hei 
small  white  hands,  so  skilful  in  the  nice  duties  of  a 
lady's  toilet  and  the  business  of  a  seamstress,  will  re- 
quire double  work  on  your  part  to  keep  them  so.  Such 
hands,  of  all  others,  are  the  most  untidy  when  brought 
down  to  the  drudgery  of  a  poor  man's  hearth.  And, 
Nathan,  there  is  something  in  her  beauty,"  (and  the  work- 
man spoke  tenderly,  as  if  it  could  be  marred  by  men- 
tioning it,)  "something  in  her  transparent  color,  fined 
off,  as  it  were,  till  one  scarcely  knows  where  the  shade 
of  health  ends  and  hectic  commences,  that  tells  me  her 
life  is  as  delicate  as  her  complexion,  and  that  any  rough- 
ness, or  coarse  words,  or  unkindness,  Nathan,"  (and 
Hardstaff  looked  fixedly  at  him  while  he  spoke,)  "  would 
surely  kill  her." 

"  You  appear  to  have  paid  such  particular  attention 
to  her,"  said  Slack,  now  thoroughly  angry,  "  and  to  be 
so  interested  in  her  treatment,  that  I  w^onder  you  did 
not  marry  her  yourself,  to  make  sure  that  she  would  be 
taken  care  of." 

"  She  would  not  have  had  me  had  I  offered,"  replied 
Abel,  calmly. 

"  Or,  as  the  next  best  turn  you  could  have  done,"  con- 
tinued Nathan,  "  advised  her  against  marrying  me." 

"  I  would  have  done  so,"  rejoined  Hardstaff,  firmly, 
"  had  there  been  any  use  in  it ;  but,  like  all  the  rest  of 


THt:    IMAGE    OF   LOVE   IN    CLAY.  23«5 

her  sex,  she  is  blinded  by  her  preference,  and  would  only 
have  scorned  me  for  my  pains.  When  it  is  too  late, 
you  will  both  waken  to  find  you  have  mistaken  a  clay 
love  for  an  immortal  one."  And,  so  saying,  he  hurried 
down  stairs  and  out  of  the  house,  and  though  his  din- 
ner hour  had  not  expired,  and  he  certainly  had  not  yet 
dined,  proceeded  straight  to  the  printing  office  where  he 
worked,  and,  laying  aside  his  coat  and  hat,  set  himself 
quickly  to  some  employment,  upon  the  principle  that 
labor  physics  pain. 

In  the  mean  while,  Nathan  Slack,  highly  indignant  at 
what  had  passed,  wrote  a  poHte  note  to  a  person  who 
had  sent  for  him  to  regild  the  letters  of  his  name  over 
his  shop  front,  informing  him  of  an  urgent  business  en- 
gagement elsewhere,  and  then  retired  to  a  public  house 
to  drown  his  annoyance  in  beer ;  in  which  he  so  well 
succeeded  that,  after  several  failures  to  retain  his  per- 
pendicular on  his  way  home,  he  arrived  there  shortly 
after  midnight,  in  such  a  state  of  mental  and  personal 
muddiness  as  threatened  to  leave  him  without  either  ha- 
biliments or  recollection  for  the  events  of  the  morrow, 
when  he  was  to  make  May  Allen,  the  pretty  lady's  maid, 
his  wife. 

He  woke  so  late  that,  though  a  dim  remembrance 
of  his  engagement  to  meet  her  at  church  that  morning 
made  him  hurry  up  from  his  bed,  he  had  neither  time 


0' 


286  THE   IMAGE    OF   LOVE    IN    CLAY. 

and  scarcely  sense  to  remove  the  soil  of  the  kennel 
from  his  clothes,  which  were  his  best,  and  I  believe  I 
may  say  his  only  ones,  and  started  off  in  stupid  haste  to 
complete  the  most  solemn  engagement  in  this  life. 

Just  within  the  church  door,  in  a  high,  old-fashioned 
seat,  sat  May  Allen,  in  her  simple  bonnet  and  white 
dress,  the  picture  of  daintiest  neatness.  No  father,  nor 
sister,  nor  any  other  relative  was  with  her  to  counte- 
nance the  step  she  was  taking.  She  was  alone  here  as 
she  had  been  in  the  world  almost  from  infancy,  and 
like  many  of  her  sex,  distrustful  of  her  own  strength, 
had  accepted  the  first  protection  that  offered,  from  an 
instinct  of  its  need  rather  than  from  any  well-grounded 
affection  for  the  offerer.  An  orphan,  accustomed  to 
all  the  sorrowful  trials  that  in  their  loneliness  and  de 
pendence  wait  upon  the  poor  and  unprotected  of  her 
sex,  especially  when  to  youth  is  added  the  charm  of  a 
pretty  face  and  graceful  person,  the  attentions  of  Na- 
than Slack  had  wakened  certain  feelings  of  gratitude  and 
pleasure  which  she  mistook  for  love  —  a  mistake  as 
great  as  she  had  made  in  construing  the  reserve  and  in- 
difference of  Abel  Hardstaff  into  apathy,  and  the  selfish 
eagerness  of  the  scene  painter  into  affection.  How- 
ever, here  was  the  wedding  day,  and  close  at  hand  the 
beginning  of  the  end  of  her  delusion. 

A  step  paused  at  the  pew  door,  the  handle  tumed» 


THE   IMAGE    OF   LOVE   IN    CLAT.  237 

&nd  May,  who  felt  it  was  Nathan,  timidly  raised  her 
eyes  to  see,  not  the  trim  bridegroom  of  her  anticipa- 
tions, but  a  disgusting-looking  man,  bearing  in  his  neg- 
lected appearance  marks  of  recent  intemperance  and 
unseemly  haste,  who,  dropping  down  beside  her,  whis- 
pered a  falsehood  in  apology  for  his  tardiness,  assuring 
her  that  he  had  been  obliged  to  attend  to  some  work  in 
the  city  of  a  nature  not  to  be  neglected,  and  that  he  had 
only  finished  it  in  time  to  reach  the  church  without 
making  any  change  in  his  dress. 

Poor  May !  Not  even  the  thrifty  industry  implied  in 
his  excuse  could  counterbalance  the  disrespect  for  the 
place,  the  solemn  service,  and  herself  which  this  want 
of  preparation  of  mind  and  body  expressed,  and  for 
the  first  time  a  sort  of  doubt  of  their  aptitude  for  one 
another  occun-ed  to  her ;  too  late,  as  she  weakly  im- 
agined, to  be  entertained. 

For  the  first  time  in  her  hfe  (and  this  upon  her  bridal 
day)  her  neatness  was  out  of  place,  and  blushes  more 
scarlet  than  those  of  maiden  modesty  covered  her  face 
with  a  distressing  sense  of  shame  at  the  discrepancy  be- 
tween her  own  appearance  and  that  of  the  man  beside  her. 

But  the  working-day,  sullied  aspect  of  the  bride- 
groom's attire,  in  contrast  with  the  purity  and  niceness 
of  the  bride's,  was  not  the  worst  point  of  unlikeness  be- 
tween them. 


238        THE  IMAGE  OF  LOVE  IN  CLAY. 

In  her  face  (which  was  fair  as  one  of  Raphael*? 
angels)  truth,  innocence,  and  honesty  were  written  with 
a  golden  clearness  ;  in  his  these  virtues  were  reversed  — 
the  eje  wavered  with  conscious  falsehood,  the  brow  in 
its  closeness  indicated  cunning,  and,  when  not  sensual, 
the  expression  of  the  mouth  became  morose.  But  May, 
who  had  been  laughed  out  of  the  infallibility  of  first 
impressions,  (since  when  she  had  learned  to  think  Na- 
than very  agreeable  and  amiable,)  only  knew  that,  taken 
as  a  whole,  the  face  was  rather  handsome  than  other- 
wise ;  and  of  his  temper  and  disposition,  what  could  she 
learn  in  those  short  evening  hours  when  the  cares  and 
labor  of  the  day  were  done  and  Nathan  relaxed  into  a 
lover  ? 

Shall  we  wait  to  see  them  come  forth,  followed  by 
the  eyes  of  the  pew  openers,  and  confronted  by  those  of 
the  beadle,  who  stands  just  within  the  portico,  in  the 
full  glory  of  his  cocked  hat  and  gold-laced  capes,  with 
his  brass-headed  staff  of  office  in  his  left  hand,  and  a 
huge  pinch  of  snuff  in  the  act  of  being  conveyed  to  his 
Bardolphian  nose  between  the  thumb  and  first  finger  of 
the  right  ?  See  !  the  sun  shines  out  and  slants  its  beams 
upon  the  scene  painter,  and  his  bride,  whose  hght  form 
in  her  filmy  robe  clings  to  his  side  like  the  luminous 
edge  skirting  a  darksome  cloud  in  winter.  Morally  as 
well  as  externally  the  metaphor  holds  good ;  but  who. 


THE    IMAGE    OF    LOVE    IN    CLAY.  239 

(as  they  pass  from  the  church  steps  to  mingle  aiid  be 
lost  sight  of  in  the  stream  of  humanity  flowing  through 
the  great  thoroughfare  before  them,)  who  shall  say 
"which  liaoiety  in  this  union  of  good  and  evil  shall  here- 
after conquer?  Shall  the  bright  sp.^ck,  bom  of  its 
nearness  to  heaven,  absorb  tie  cloud  into  its  own  fair 
splendor  ?  or  shall  this  in  its  sullen  darkness  involve  the 
hght? 

Alas  !  poor  May;  the  struggle  has  already  commenced, 
or  rather,  in  the  meek  helplessness  of  her  disposition, 
her  submission.  She  cannot  hide  from  herself  that  her 
innocent  eyes  have  recognized  that  something  in  her 
husband's  looks  which,  while  disgustingly  accounting  for 
his  conduct  and  appearance,  fills  her  with  apprehension 
and  loathing.  This  first  bitter  test  of  the  firmness  of 
her  affection  has  already  shaken  it,  and  her  hand  leans 
less  confidently  on  the  arm  of  her  husband  than  it  did 
the  overnight  on  that  of  her  lover. 

Let  us  follow  them  home  and  into  the  room  the  dec- 
oration of  which  Abel  Hardstaff  had  pronounced  so 
pretty,  and  which,  to  May's  quick  perception,  seemed  so 
much  more,  that,  with  a  sudden  reaction  of  feehng,  she 
forgave  (for  the  sake  of  its  fair  symbolism)  the  disre- 
spectful conduct  of  her  bridegroom,  with  all  the  dis- 
honor it  had  cast  upon  their  bridal. 

Poor  simple  girl !     The  imaged  Love  (which  to  hei 


240  THE    IMAGE    OF    LOVE    IN    CLAY. 

looked  pure  and  beautiful  as  Parian  marble,  though  but 
of  clay)  was  full  of  tenderest  meaning  —  a  myth,  so 
she  translated  it,  of  the  spii-it  of  aflfection  which  Nathan, 
on  his  part  as  she  on  hers,  desired  to  pervade  their 
hearts  and  dwelling ;  while  he,  if  the  truth  must  be 
told,  had  never  thought  of  sentiment  in  the  matter.  He 
felt,  when  sober,  a  certain  vanity  in  his  right-hand's  cun- 
ning, which  had  resulted  in  the  wreath ;  the  Cupid  was 
merely  there  for  ornament.  Such  things  decorate  the 
cots  of  lovers  in  the  gaslit  Arcady  of  the  theatres,  and 
beyond  this  the  artist  had  no  meaning  for  their  presence ; 
and  therefore,  when  May's  blue  eye  turned  from  the 
decorated  ceiling  to  himself  with  a  timid  look  of  grate- 
ful pleasure,  Nathan  understood  it  to  convey  a  proper 
appreciation  of  his  talent,  and,  for  the  sake  of  heighten- 
ing it,  could  scarcely  forbear  throwing  in  another  fib, 
and  assuring  her  that  it  had  all  been  done  over  night ; 
but  remembering  how  late  he  had  been  with  the  friends 
with  whom  she  lodged,  and  how  early  (by  his  own  ac- 
count) he  had  attended  his  supposititious  engagement  in 
the  city  this  morning,  he  found  himself  obliged  to  forego 
the  opportunity,  neat  as  it  was. 

It  required  but  few  days  of  wifehood  to  show  May, 
not  only  the  poverty  of  her  husband's  wardrobe  and 
purse,  but  his  worse  want  of  principle  and  truthfulness. 
He  seemed  to  have  made  Rochefoucauld's  maxim,  that 


THE   IMAGE    OF   LOVE    IN    CLAY.  241 

"  language  is  given  us  to  conceal  our  thoughts,"  his  own, 
and  to  act  upon  it  on  all  occasions.  Day  by  day  she 
trusted  to  his  representations,  to  be  from  day  to  day 
deceived  ;  added  to  which  the  habit  of  drink,  which  for 
one  short  week  he  had  resisted,  came  back  again  in  full 
force,  overwhelming  the  miserable  girl  with  new  and 
terrible  affliction.  At  first,  after  these  breaches  of  de- 
cency and  respect  for  her,  he  affected  the  greatest  anger 
against  himself,  and  attributed  the  occurrence  to  the 
custom  prevalent  with  artisans  of  drinking  together  on 
such  occasions  and  to  the  excitability  of  his  own  feelings 
from  very  joy  that  she  was  his  —  thus  softening  with 
tacit  flattery  the  wounds  he  inflicted  on  her.  But  after 
a  little  time  these  outbreaks  became  so  frequent  that  she 
could  no  longer  doubt  herself  the  wife  of  an  habitual 
drunkard ;  and  with  this  conviction  the  flowery  links  of 
faith  and  hope  wore  out  together,  making  a  very  fetter 
of  their  bond. 

Midnight,  sometimes  the  breaking  dawn,  found  her, 
with  swollen  eyes  and  beating  heart,  waiting  in  fear  and 
loathing  the  return  of  this  man  who  but  a  long  month 
since  had  been  so  eager  to  make  her  the  "  loadstone  of 
his  home,"  the  "joy  of  his  life,"  the  "  anchor  of  his  affec- 
tions," and  for  whom  she  had  parted  with  the  pecu- 
niary independence  and  plenty  of  respectable  servitutle 
21 


242        THE  IMAGE  OF  LOVE  IN  CLAY. 

and  tliat  cheerfulness  which  freedom  from  all  anxiety 
bestows. 

Then  there  came  with  his  occasional  awakenings  of 
conscience  a  sense  of  self-upbraiding,  which  reacted  in 
irritabihty  or  ferocious  outbreaks  of  temper,  crushing 
out  of  her  meek  and  loving  nature  aU  its  gentleness, 
making  her  face  thin  and  her  voice  sharp,  and  leaving 
but  the  careworn  outline  of  a  form  that  a  few  weeks 
back  had  been  symmetry  itself.  So  day  by  day  her 
hair  lost  its  brightness  and  her  eyes  their  light ;  she 
grew  careless  of  her  personal  appearance ;  her  dress 
hung  upon  her  rapidly  declining  figure,  and  was  never 
altered ;  her  home  grew  neglected ;  the  warmth  and 
neatness  of  her  fireside  waned.  What  cared  she  for 
either  when  the  companion  of  them  (that  should  be) 
was  squandering  in  an  alehouse  whatever  he  had  earned 
towards  their  maintenance  throughout  the  day,  while 
she  sat  there  miserable  and  alone,  fearing,  while  wishing 
for  his  coming,  lest  he  should  be  in  the  state  she  was 
now  almost  nightly  accustomed  to  see  him  —  the  gross, 
heavy  bacchanalianism  of  heer  ? 

And  for  all  this  was  there  no  help  ?  Where  was  the 
powerful  aegis  of  her  young,  pure  beauty,  the  arrowy 
words  tipped  with  the  honey  of  tenderness  and  persua- 
sion, which  she  might  have  used  against  him  and 
conquered  ?     Alas !    May  wanted   the   moral   courage 


THE    IMAGE    OF    LOVE    IN    CLAY.  243 

/hat  should  have  interposed  and  defended  him  even 
from  himself.  She  had  tears,  but  not  firmness,  and, 
when  her  first  timid  efforts  failed,  gave  up  when  she 
should  most  have  struggled ;  and  so,  not  gradually,  but 
almost  at  once,  sank  down  into  the  very  being  Abel 
ITardstaff  had  prognosticated  —  a  nervous,  slatternly, 
broken-spirited,  reserved  woman,  wishing  for  the  shadow 
of  the  grave  while  yet  in  youth,  nor  even  desiring  life 
when  children  were  given  to  her. 

In  the  mean  while  the  dust  settled  on  the  clay  love 
as  it  did  on  every  thing  else  in  this  sad  home,  turning 
its  beauty  to  disfigurement,  its  purity  to  a  soil,  till  at 
length  it  became  a  darksome  eyesore  hanging  bat-like 
from  the  ceiling,  with  wings  forever  spread  forth  as 
if  longing  to  fly  away  but  for  the  wire  that  kept  and 
bound  it  there.  And  May,  whose  perceptions  were 
rather  quickened  than  blunted  by  suffering,  and  who 
saw  in  it  a  daily  emblem  of  her  own  sad  state,  at  last,  in 
the  hope  of  relieving  herself  of  its  ever-present  memo- 
ries, thrust  it  forth  into  the  passage,  where  Nathan's  eye 
fell  upon  it.  Liking  it  no  better  than  his  wife,  it  was 
pushed  out  into  the  area,  and  the  door  closed  upon  it. 
***** 

Years  went  by,  sweeping  with  them  Nathan  Slack's 
credit,  such  as  it  had  been,  and  his  wife's  good  looks  and 
health,  but  not  her  sorrows.     The  parlor,  with  its  flower- 


244       THE  IMAGE  OF  LOVE  IN  CLAY. 

wreathed  ceiling,  was  now  exchanged  for  the  ill  lighted 
and  worse  ventilated  basement  floor,  between  the  boards 
of  which,  on  every  change  of  weather,  mephitic  vapors 
oozed  up  from  the  drains,  discoloring  the  subterranean 
walls  with  natural  frescoes  in  incipient  fungus  and  cling- 
ing in  green  mildew  to  the  sides  of  the  mattresses  on 
which  they  slept,  occasioning  colds  and  coughs  in  the 
mother  and  her  children,  which  from  repetition  became 
constitutional.  These  poor  little  beings  lived  in  fretful- 
ness  and  discontent,  exhibited  a  peevishness  and  irrita- 
bility of  temper  which  added  not  a  little  to  their  moth- 
er's trials,  increasing  by  their  tiny  thanklessness  all  she 
suffered,  casting  back  to  her  with  repelling  hands- and 
passionate  tears  the  bread  she  mulcted  herself  of  in 
order  to  give  them  full  meals,  and  often  tearing  up  in 
purest  mischief  the  garments  she  had  sat  up  half  the 
night  to  repair  or  (perhaps  out  of  some  hardly-spared 
ones  of  her  own)  to  make  for  them.  She  seemed  to 
overlook  the  fact  that  both  temper  and  appetite  depend 
on  health,  and  that,  shut  up  without  air  or  exercise, 
robbed  of  their  birthright  of  play  and  sunshine,  it  was 
but  natural,  without  anterior  causes,  her  children  should 
be  impatient  and  wilful,  and  that,  in  not  providing  them 
with  amusement,  she  was  in  fact  forcing  mischief  upon 
them  as  an  occupation. 

Other  children  in  the  house  played  out  of  doors ;  but 


THE    IMAGE    OF    LOVE    IN    CLAY.  245 

hers,  not  having  shoes  when  they  had  hats,  or  vice  versoy 
breathed  the  same  tainted  air  night  and  day,  and,  as  the 
widest  extent  of  their  infantile  liberty,  never  got  beyond 
the  yard  or  the  area. 

Another  consequence  of  this  unhealthy  confinement 
was  that  when  night  came  they  were  not  prepared  to 
sleep ;  and  therefore,  instead  of  evening  bringing  with 
it  the  calm  and  leisure  which  most  housewives  enjoy, 
and  which  enable  them  at  each  day's  close  to  strike  a 
balance  with  its  varied,  and,  but  for  this  period,  unfin- 
ished labors.  May's  neighbors  were  annoyed  with  the 
noise  and  cries  of  her  children  as  long  as  she  herself 
remained  up. 

Miserable  mother,  and  yet  more  miserable  children, 
who  have  the  misconduct  of  your  parents  visited  on  you 
even  in  those  days  of  utter  helplessness !  Without  a 
doubt  the  primary  root  of  all  this  home  evil  was  to  be 
found  in  Nathan  Slack's  love  of  drink  and  want  of 
principle,  which  prevented  him,  though  an  excellent 
workman,  from  obtaining  constant  employment  or  con- 
tinuing in  it  when  obtained ;  but  at  the  same  time  May's 
moral  feebleness  and  want  of  management  doubled  the 
extent  of  the  mischief,  and  afforded  him  in  the  estima- 
tion of  those  who  knew  nothing  of  his  habits  before 
marriage  almost  an  excuse  for  his  misconduct. 

Who  knows  what  smiles,  worn  through  the  heart's 
21* 


246  THE    IMAGE    OF    LOVE    IN    CLAY. 

martyrdom,  and  a  bright,  clear,  cheery  hearth,  and  quiet, 
might  have  done  even  with  so  untoward  a  patient  as  the 
scene  painter  ?  Instead  of  which,  May,  who  was  doing 
all  day  long,  without  ever  appearing  to  make  headway 
against  her  own  want  of  method  and  tidiness,  was  sure 
to  be  as  neglected-looking  and  dirty  in  her  person  as  in 
her  place,  where  every  thing  was  in  disorder ;  and  her 
children,  instead  of  being  in  their  rosy  sleep  pictures  of 
purity  and  repose,  were  more  probably  crying  and  strug- 
gling on  the  floor,  with  its  soils  for  the  most  part  trans- 
ferred to  themselves  and  clothing.  These  are  not  the 
circumstances  tliat  tend  to  waken  the  better  nature  of 
a  man  when  dormant,  or  to  keep  it  active  when  awake ; 
and  accordingly,  finding  none  of  that  comfort  which 
quiet  and  cleanliness  bestow  upon  the  humblest  hearth 
to  counterbalance  the  turmoil,  vexations,  or  disappoint- 
ments of  the  day,  Nathan  Slack  spent  as  short  a  time 
as  possible  beside  it  and  characterized  that  period  with 
ill  temper. 

In  the  mean  while  Abel  Hardstaff  remained  unmar- 
ried ;  but  a  sister,  through  whom  he  had  first  known 
May,  lived  with  him,  and  kept  his  rooms  so  neat  and  his 
clothes  so  well  looked  after  that  it  seemed  as  if  nothing 
short  of  losing  her  could  induce  him  to  be  other  than  a 
bachelor. 

The  conscious  change  in  herself  and  sh^me  for  her 


THE   IMAGE    OF    LOVE    IN    CLAY.  247 

poverty-stricken  home  and  appearance  had  induced 
Mrs.  Slack  to  give  up  all  her  acquaintance  shortly  after 
her  marriage ;  and  thus  Susan  Hardstaff  had  almost  or 
quite  lost  sight  of  her ;  but  true  friendship  does  not  die 
out  even  in  the  absence  of  its  object ;  and  Susan  never 
ceased  to  think  with  interest  of  her. 

Now,  it  happened  that  in  one  of  Nathan's  fits  of  in- 
toxication one  of  his  friends  and  companions  on  those 
occasions,  wanting  some  money,  persuaded  him  to  accept 
an  accommodation  bill  for  twenty  pounds,  value  received, 
payable  in  three  months.  Something  was  said  at  the 
time  of  their  mutually  benefiting  by  the  transaction; 
but  his  friend  altered  his  mind,  and  Nathan  never  re- 
ceived a  penny  of  it.  At  the  end  of  the  three  months, 
however,  he  found  himself  called  upon  to  meet  the 
amount ;  and  the  person  who  had  drawn  the  bill  having 
got  out  of  the  way,  the  discounter,  finding  that*  the 
WTCtched  scene  painter  had  neither  money  nor  goods  of 
the  value,  at  once  arrested  and  threw  him  into  prison. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  day  on  which  this  happened, 
a  fair  and  sunny  afternoon  in  June,  Susan  Hardstaff, 
who  had  heard  it  fioni  her  brother,  slipped  on  her 
coarse  but  clean  straw  bonnet,  and,  taking  with  her  a 
little  basket  of  necessaries,  ran  down  the  area  steps  of 
Mi*s.  Slack's  lodging  in  order  to  avoid  the  other  persons 
in  the  house,  and  knocked  very  gently  at  the  door.     Nff 


248       THE  IMAGE  OF  LOVE  IN  CLaY. 

one  answered ;  but  she  heard  sounds  between  sobs  and 
moans  and  the  fractious  wrangling  of  children;  and, 
taking  courage  from  the  pure  feeHng  of  kindness  with 
which  she  came,  she  pushed  open  the  door  and  went  in. 
There  lay  May,  with  her  face  buried  in  the  bed  and  her 
tarnished  hair  tossed  down  about  her  shoulders,  the  very 
picture  of  heart-broken  hopelessness. 

Though  four  o'clock  on  a  summer's  day,  the  stained 
and  dirty  tablecloth  remained  on  one  end  of  a  deal  table, 
and  was  covered  with  the  unwashed  breakfast  things 
and  remnants  of  the  morning  meal,  while  the  other  was 
heaped  with  potatoes  half  pared  in  preparation  for  din- 
ner ;  and  on  the  floor,  in  the  midst  of  an  emptied  basket 
of  peas,  —  which  the  one  opened  and  ate,  and  the  other 
crunched  a  part  of  such  as  pleased  her  and  then  threw 
back  again  into  the  basket,  —  sat  two  pretty  but  veiy 
dirty  children.  The  dresser  had  scarcely  three  plates 
remaining  on  it ;  but  a  heap  of  clothes,  washed  the  week 
before,  were  tumbled  together  on  a  corner  of  the  shelf 
to  be  ironed  or  put  on  rough  dried  as  might  happen ; 
while  the  floor,  slopped  and  filthy  and  only  partially 
covered  by  a  very  ragged  piece  of  carpet,  perfected  the 
disarray  and  comfortless  appearance  of  the  room. 

"  Do  not  cry,  my  poor  girl,"  said  Susan,  lifting  May 
tenderly,  and  speaking  in  a  voice  which  like  her  looks 
overflowed  with   compassion  for  her  quondam  friend. 


THE    IMAGE    OF    LOVE    IN    CLAY.  249 

*  Your  tears  cannot  undo  what  is  done,  nor  help  your- 
self or  husband  to  endure  it;  take  courage  and  be 
patient ;  and  who  knows  but  that,  as  morning  comes  out 
of  night,  there  may  be  sunshine  under  this  thick  dark- 
ness ?  There,  that  is  right ;  get  up  and  bathe  your  eyes 
and  put  your  hair  and  dress  to  rights ;  and  I  will  look 
after  your  place  and  the  children  while  you  go  to  your 
husband  and  comfort  him,  for  doubtless  he  needs  it.'* 

"  But  will  he  let  me  ?  "  cried  May,  looking  round  as 
if  she  had  waked  from  a  dream.  "  Will  he  not  be  angry 
with  me  for  leaving  home  and  the  little  ones,  and  per- 
haps drive  me  from  him  with  hard  words  ?  " 

"  No,  depend  upon  it,"  said  Susan,  dryly ;  "  he  will 
only  be  too  glad  to  see  you ;  for  he  must  want  food  un- 
less he  had  money  to  procure  it ;  if  he  had  not,  he  is 
tame  enough  by  this  time,  you  may  be  sure.  There, 
don't  stay  to  put  any  thing  away ;  I  shall  not  expect 
you  home  to-night,  for  you  will  hardly  have  time  to 
walk  there  and  see  your  husband  before  it  will  be  time 
to  come  away."  And,  thus  hurrying  her  off,  Susan 
Hardstaff  put  the  basket  she  had  brought  with  her  upon 
May's  ai-m,  and,  bidding  God  bless  her,  fairly  pushed 
her  out  of  doors  before  the  children  could  suspect  she 
was  leaving  them. 

In  the  mean  while  Nathan  Slack,  who  had  never  for 
one  moment  contemplated  such  a  termination  to  the 


250  THE    IMAGE    OF    LOVE    IN    CLAY. 

affair,  but  had  trusted  to  the  assurances  of  his  unprinci 
pled  partner  in  it  to  furnish  the  means  of  meeting  the 
bill,  wakened,  on  finding  himself  within  the  walls  of  a 
prison,  to  the  dishonesty,  and,  what  was  then  infinitely 
more  a  source  of  discontent  to  him,  the  folly,  of  the 
transaction.  It  would  have  been  bad  enough  to  have 
gone  to  jail  for  his  own  debts  ;  but  to  have  been  duped 
in  order  to  benefit  another,  who,  not  satisfied  with  de- 
frauding him  of  all  participation  in  the  money,  could 
then  heartlessly  throw  the  responsibility  upon  his  shoul- 
ders and  actually  suffer  him  to  be  sent  to  prison,  was 
almost  more  than  he  could  bear ;  and  by  turns  he  chafed 
himself  into  a  rage  or  sank  into  complete  prostration. 
In  this  state  of  mind  he  had  consideration  even  for  his 
wife  and  children,  and  added  to  the  misery  of  his  position 
a  picture  of  their  loneliness  and  want  which  became  ab- 
solutely pathetic  now  that  it  was  forced  upon  them  invol- 
untarily. Time,  too,  and  labor,  for  the  first  occasion  in 
his  existence,  grew  into  matters  of  importance  and  priv- 
ilege ;  and  the  thought  that  the  advantages  of  both  were 
forcibly  withheld  from  him  assumed  a  shape  of  grievous 
loss  and  wrong ;  so  that  when  poor  May  arrived,  which 
was  as  quickly  as  her  own  strength  and  the  weight  of 
Susan's  basket  would  permit  her,  she  found  her  husband 
in  a  much  more  sobered  and  sympathizing  frame  of 
feeling  than  she  had  ever  before  seen  him  in ;  while  the 


THE   IMAGE    OF   LOVE   IN    CLAY.  251 

eight  of  her  wan,  thin  face,  first  to  find  him  out  in  his 
misery,  wakened  a  host  of  wholesome  self-upbraidings, 
and  suddenly  overflowed  his  cup  of  commiseration  for 
himself  with  sprinkhngs  of  it  for  her  —  a  state  of  feel- 
ing which  gave  such  kindness  to  his  looks  and  gentleness 
to  his  accents  that  May  found  her  heart  drawn  towards 
him  with  a  tenderness  she  had  never  before  experi- 
enced ;  and  after  a  mDment's  scrutiny,  as  if  to  satisfy 
herself  that  it  was  real,  she  cast  herself  with  a  sudden 
impulse  in  his  arms  weeping,  she  could  scarcely  tell 
whether  with  grief  or  joy,  and  Nathan  kept  her  there ; 
and  it  was  no  dream  —  she  felt  a  tear  fall  on  her  neck. 
That  night  the  scene  painter  was  seized  with  symptoma 
of  illness,  which  resulted  in  fever;  and  for  an  entire 
week  May  never  left  him  night  or  day.  She  felt,  how- 
ever, no  anxiety  for  her  children ;  for  Abel  HardstalF 
had  called  several  times  to  bid  her  be  under  no  appre- 
hension for  them,  as  his  sister  found  no  trouble  in  look- 
ing after  them,  and  would  continue  to  do  so  until  her 
return. 

At  the  end  of  this  time,  however,  her  husband's  dis- 
order took  a  favorable  change ;  and,  though  very  weak 
and  exhausted,  hopes  were  given  her  that  his  Ufe  would 
be  spared,  which  at  one  stage  of  his  illness  had  been 
doubtful ;  but,  as  he  required  careful  nursing  more  than 
ever,  she  was  still  unable  to  visit  home,  where,  in  every 


252  THE  IMAGE    OF  LOVE   IN   CLAY. 

interval  of  her  attendance  on  him,  her  thoughts'  were 
always  wandering.  The  long  hours  of  lingering  debil- 
ity which  ensued  gave  Nathan  ample  time  for  reflection ; 
and  much  of  repentance  and  regret  mingled  with  it. 
He  saw  as  in  a  glass  his  wasted  opportunities  pass  by 
him,  felt  how  time  and  talent  had  been  given  him  in 
vain,  and  groaned  with  anguish  over  his  own  heartless- 
ness  and  folly  which  had  left  but  a  shade  between  his 
family's  position  and  that  of  the  beggars  in  the  streets. 
May's  conduct,  too,  throughout  his  illness  had  shown 
him  more  of  her  inner  nature  and  roused  in  him  a 
more  real  affection  than  he  had  ever  felt  for  her  in  his 
life ;  she  was  no  longer  the  timid,  spiritless,  cold-man- 
nered woman,  seeming  indifferent  to  every  thing  save 
the  reality  of  despair,  but  an  anxious,  affectionate  help- 
mate, exerting  herself  to  the  very  utmost  to  tend  and 
comfort  him,  affecting  courage  in  order  to  give  him 
hope,  working  throughout  the  day  to  provide  the  nour- 
ishment required  for  him,  and  waking  at  night  to  minis- 
ter, and,  often  when  she  thought  he  slept,  to  pray,  for 
him  —  prayers  that  had  their  answer  in  his  progressive 
restoration,  in  these  painful  but  healthy  retrospections, 
and  in  his  changing  feelings  to  herself.  The  clay  love 
was  becoming  spiritualized  —  the  mom  was  breaking 
out  of  darkness. 

And  now  at  length  a  day  arrived  when  May  could 


THE   IMAGE    OF   LOVE    IN    CLAY.  253 

comfortably  leave  her  husband  to  pay  a  hasty  visit  to 
her  children.  The  grated  windows  and  darksome  walls 
of  the  gloomy  prison  were  left  behind ;  and  she  almost 
ran  through  the  streets  in  her  eagerness  to  meet  them. 
At  last  the  house  is  reached ;  and  she  enters  her  hum- 
ble lodgings,  wondering  how  her  little  ones  will  look  and 
what  they  will  say  at  seeing  her.  But  can  these  rooms, 
with  their  white  boards  and  whiter  ceilings  and  every 
thing  in  them  looking  so  fresh  and  bright,  be  really  hers  ? 
Yes ;  and  here  is  the  handmaid  who  has  effected  the 
alteration  —  kind  Susan  Hardstaff,  with  her  warm  hand 
grasp  and  pleasant  smile.  But  where,  where  are  the 
children  ? 

"  Why,  at  school,"  said  Susan,  laughing. 

"  At  school,"  repeated  May,  with  something  very  like 
reproach  in  her  tone.    "  Poor  little  things  ! " 

"  Yes ;  and  you  can't  think  how  happy  they  are,**  con- 
tinued Susan,  affecting  not  to  notice  the  pity  implied 
in  May's  expression ;  "  but  you  will  hear  Avl;eii  four 
o'clock  comes.  So  now  tell  me  all  about  poor  Nathan 
and  yourself.  The  clock  will  strike  presently,"  she  con- 
tinued, observing  poor  May's  distress,  "  and  then  you 
shall  tell  me  which  is  best  for  them  —  to  stop  at  home 
in  your  way  all  the  day  long,  making  themselves  dirty 
and  getting  into  all  sorts  of  mischief,  or  to  be  where 
they  are  kept  out  of  both  and  are  at  the  same  time 
22 


254  THE   IMAGE    OP   LOVE   IN    CLAY. 

taught,  without  the  toil  of  such  teaching  as  yours 
and  mine  would  be,  those  first  steps  in  learning 
which  were  so  painful  and  laborious  to  us.  At  the 
'Infant  School,*  while  they  are  playiny  they  are 
gaining  knowledge ;  and  you  cannot  think  how  happy 
they  are  there  and  how  anxious  they  are  always  to 
return  to  it." 

I  am  obliged  to  own  that  more  of  shame  than  gratifi- 
cation entered  into  May's  feelings  as  she  gazed  round 
on  the  altered  appearance  of  her  home.  Nor  did  she 
quite  like  Susan's  plan  of  sending  the  little  ones  to 
school;  but  in  the  midst  of  her  secret  chagrin  there 
came  bounding  down  the  area  steps,  laughing  their  fare- 
well of  an  elder  girl,  who  had  brought  them  so  far  on 
their  way  and  now  stood  watching  them  from  the  top, 
two  happy-looking,  pink-cheeked,  sprightly  children,  who 
raced  forward  to  meet  Susan,  and  fell  into  the  arms  of 
their  poor  mother,  whose  heart,  too  genuinely  delighted 
in  the  change  effected  in  them  to  suffer  for  a  moment  a 
petty  jealousy  to  overshadow  it,  with  a  generous  out- 
burst of  feeling  alternately  clasped  them  to  her  bosom, 
and  then,  between  tears  and  caresses,  expressed  as  best 
she  could  her  thanks  to  Susan.  They  were  so  clean,  so 
fresh  looking  and  happy,  —  so  different  from  the  quar- 
relsome, and,  by  contrast,  squalid-looking  beings  she  had 
left, — that  it  seemed  impossible  little  better  than  a  fort' 


THE   IMAGE    OF   LOVE   IN    CLAY.  255 

night  should  have  made  so  complete  an  improvement  in 
them. 

"  The  fact  is,  my  dear  May,  you  had  no  time  for 
keeping  things  to  rights,"  said  Susan,  kindly.  "  And  I 
am  sure  I  should  have  managed  no  better  had  I  kept 
little  Nat  and  May  at  home ;  but,  with  them  out  of  the 
way,  it  is  easy  to  put  the  place  in  order  and  to  keep  it 
so ;  besides,  it  gives  plenty  of  time  for  mending  and 
washing  their  clothes,  without  running  the  business  of 
the  day  into  the  only  hours  your  husband  is  at  home 
and  can  enjoy  it  with  you.  Now,  only  listen  to  those 
little  things'  prattle ;  they  are  telling  you  all  they  have 
learned  and  played  at  to-day.  How  they  will  amuse 
you  and  their  father !  and,  as  they  have  had  an  hour 
or  two's  exercise  in  the  play  ground,  by  the  time  you 
have  had  tea  they  will  be  ready  for  bed ;  and  then  the 
whole  evening  will  be  yours  for  needlework.  Now,  do 
you  forgive  me  for  sending  them,  and  agree  with  me 
that  it  is  a  better  plan  and  has  more  real  love  in  it  for 
the  little  things  themselves  than  the  keeping  them  at 
home  to  their  own  and  your  discomfort  ?  " 

"  But,  Susan,"  interrupted  May,  "  I  am  afraid  I  shall 
never  be  able  to  keep  things  looking  as  nice  as  they  are 
now ;  if  I  could,"  —  and  she  laughed  jv^ith  hysterical  joy 
as  she  spoke,  —  "I  think  I  might  be  a  happier  wife  than 
I  have  ever  been,  and  Nathan  a  different  man." 


zoo    '    THE  IMAGE  OF  LOVE  IN  CLAY. 

**  But  there  is  no  diflSculty  in  it  w/ien  once  you  begin 
with  a  determination  to  go  on,"  said  Susan,  earnestly ; 
"  it  only  wants  method  ;  and  there,  you  know,  I  had  the 
advantage  of  you.  What  should  you  know  of  the  best 
way  of  doing  household  work  who  were  always  busied 
with  ball  dresses  and  such  like  things  ?  But  I  will  come 
in  every  day  for  a  while  and  show  you  my  plan,  so 
that  by  the  time  Nathan  comes  back  it  will  be  your  own; 
and  you  have  only  to  keep  to  it  to  insure  comfort  at  your 
hearth  for  your  husband,  your  children,  and  yourself. 
And  0,  dear  May,  what  more  does  a  good  wife  want  ? 
Affection  follows  it,  for  a  man  cannot  be  indifferent  to 
the  blessings  of  a  quiet,  cleanly  home ;  it  creates  habits 
of  order  and  decency  in  your  children,  and  encourages 
carefulness  on  the  part  of  your  husband,  who  has  then 
something  to  toil  for  worth  mentioning.  And  now  I 
have  another  little  bit  of  hope  for  you ;  only  we  must 
not  be  too  sanguine  of  its  being  realized,  besides  that 
Nathan  may  not  perhaps  agree  to  it ;  but  Abel  has  been 
again  and  again  to  Mr.  Zumpt,  the  bill  discounter,  and 
has  represented  as  strongly  as  he  could  the  uselessness 
of  the  step  he  has  taken  with  regard  to  your  husband, 
and  the  poverty  and  sorrow  he  is  inflicting  on  you  and 
your  innocent  children ;  while,  on  the  other  hand,  he  has 
taken  upon  himself  to  say  that,  if  set  at  liberty,  Nathan 
would  in  all  probability  be  willing  to  pay  the  money  by 


THE    IMAGE    OF    LOVE    IN   CLAY.  257 

instalments;  and  though  this  seems  very  hard,  dear 
May,  considering  that  he  did  not  have  the  spending  of 
any  part  of  it,  who  knows  but  that,  after  all,  the  suffering 
may  be  worth  the  cost  ?  " 

"  O,  only  too  gladly  would  he  pay  it,  Susan,  if  this 
man  would  once  more  give  him  the  freedom  to  earn  it," 
cried  the  poor  wife. 

"  Well,  I  think  he  is  almost  certain  to  do  it,"  re- 
joined her  friend ;  "  but  now  we  will  talk  of  something 
else." 

In  brief,  a  few  weeks  later  Nathan  Slack  was  re- 
leased from  prison,  his  creditor  withdrew  the  detainer 
against  him,  and  so  ended  his  sejour  in  "VVhitecross 
Street,  but  not  its  effects :  from  henceforth  he  resisted 
intemperance,  and  being,  as  I  before  said,  a  first-rate 
workman,  found  no  difficulty  in  obtaining  emplojTnent 
as  soon  as  his  change  of  character  established  itself. 
Ambition  now  took  the  place  of  that  sottish  recklessness 
which  had  kept  him  indifferent  to  every  thing  but  self- 
indulgence,  and  he  became  as  remarkable  for  industry 
and  forethought  as  he  had  been  for  the  want  of  these 
qualities. 

In  the  mean  while  Susan's  system  had  not  been  thrown 

away  upon  her  friend.     May  had  tried  with  her  whole 

heart  to  break  herself  of  her  ill  habits  and  acquire  that 

economy  of  time  and  method  which  she  perceived  was 

22* 


2S8       THE  IMAGE  OF  LOVE  IN  CLAY. 

the  secret  of  good  housewifery ;  and  her  docility  and 
perseverance  were  richly  rewarded  in  their  effects  upon 
her  lowly  home  and  the  attraction  thus  cast  around  it ; 
for  her  husband,  whose  artist  eyes,  no  longer  offended  by 
its  appearance  and  that  of  herself  and  children,  came 
home  as  to  an  ark  of  rest  after  the  occupation  of  the 
day,  delighted  to  sit  at  his  own  fireside,  while  little  Nat 
leaned  beside  him  and  May  clambered  on  his  knee  ;  and 
May,  his  own  dear  May,  sat  opposite,  busied  with  her 
work,  from  which  she  only  lifted  her  eyes  to  cast  a  lov- 
ing look  upon  the  group,  and  then  perchance  to  the  clay 
love,  purified,  which,  once  more  brought  within  doors, 
looked  in  its  silken  bands  above  the  chimney  piece  as  if 
content  to  hover  there  forever.  They  had  prepared 
it,  too,  even  as  pure  love  prepares  the  heart,  so 
that  every  stain  that  fell  upon  it  might  be  washed  off 
and  its  own  whiteness  show  the  fairer  for  the  passing 
blemish. 

And  now  every  day  brings  them  closer  to  a  new  and 
healthier  home ;  for  Nathan  has  become  a  member  of  a 
building  society  and  aims  at  the  honor  of  a  freehold 
which  shall  be  his  son's  after  him ;  and  May,  who  has 
the  same  hope  at  heart,  finds  time  to  use  her  needle  in 
behalf  of  it. 

Here,  therefore,  we  shall  leave  them,  happy  in  theif 
own  and  children's  society  and  in  the  true  friendship  of 


THE   IMAGE    OF   LOVE   IN    CLAY.  259 

Abel  Hardstaff  and  his  sister,  but  for  whom,  in  all 
probability,  the  Image  of  Love  in  Clay  would  have  moul- 
dered to  its  native  element,  and  that  of  which  it  was 
the  myth  in  the  heart  of  the  scene  painter  and  his  wife 
never  have  tnown  regeneration. 


DESPAIR  NOT. 

We  were  not  made  to  pass  in  sorrow 
Our  brief  existence  here  away ; 

For  grief's  a  cloud  that  on  the  morrow 
Gives  promise  of  a  brighter  day. 

Bright  flowers  decay ;  gay  foliage  fades 
Beneath  November's  chilly  reign ; 

But,  robed  in  gayer  tints,  the  spring 
Beholds  the  blushing  flowers  again. 

So,  when  some  grief  has  blighted  hopes 
Of  happiness  too  dearly  cherished, 

Too  oft  we  deem  that  every  joy 
Has  with  departed  idols  perished. 

However  deep  the  wound  we  feel, 
However  great  our  cause  of  sadness, 

Time  rolls  the  clouds  of  grief  away, 
And  brings  again  our  wonted  gladness. 


TO  IVIY  BELOVED. 

Come,  gently  lay  thy  head  upon  this  fond  and  faithful 

breast ; 
I  would  that  it  should  be  to  thee  a  home  of  peace  and 

rest ; 
If  care  or  pain  should  ever  east  a  shade  upon  thy  brow, 
Then  let  me  kiss  that  shade  away  as  thus  I  kiss  thee 

now. 

If  song  can  cheer  thee,  then  I'll  sing  some  old  familiar 

strain, 
Whose  well-remembered  tones  shall  woo  thee  back  to 

love  again  — 
Shall  win  thee  from  each  gloomy  thought,  and  with  its 

mirth  beguile 
Thy  soul  unto  its  wonted  ease,  thy  lip  its  wonted  smile. 

The  sweetest  moments  I  have  known  are  those  I've 

spent  with  thee, 
Wlien,  mingling  in  the  joyous  dance,  our  hearts  were 

light  and  free ; 


262  TO    MY    BELOVED. 

Yet  would  the  gayest  scene  be  dull  without  that  thou 

wert  near, 
That  I  might  give  thee  smile  for  smile,  or  give  thee  tear 

for  tear. 

And,  as  I  think,  the  words  of  Ruth  come  floating  through 

my  brain ; 
It  is  the  fondest  dream  I  have ;  my  wish  it  is  the  same. 
That  wheresoe'er  thy  footsteps   turn,   wherever  thou 

shalt  roam. 
There  will  I  live,  there  will  I  die ;  thy  home  shall  be 

my  home. 


SOUTHAMPTON. 


KING  HENRY  V. 


Chorus.  And  the  scene 

Is  now  transported,  gentles,  to  Southampton. 


This  building  is  still  in  good  preservation :  it  is  situ- 
ated in  the  Place  de  la  Pucelle,  so  called  from  its  being 
the  scene  of  the  execution  of  the  celebrated  Joan  of 
Arc,  to  whose  memory  a  monument  is  erected.  This 
fabric  is  shown  in  the  engraving. 

Upon  the  accession  of  Henry  VI.,  the  Duke  of  Bed- 
ford was  constituted  chief  councillor  and  protector  of  the 
king,  then  an  infant,  and  appointed  at  the  same  time 
Regent  of  France.  But  all  his  splendid  achievements 
in  the  "  land  of  the  Gaul,"  great,  glorious,  and  gallant 
as  they  were,  lie  forever  obscured  beneath  one  dark 


264  SOUTHAMPTON. 

deed  of  inhumanity  —  his  cruel  and  savage  treatment 
of  the  most  undaunted  of  his  foes  —  the  enthusiastic 
Maid  of  Orleans,  Joan  of  Arc.  The  duke  died  at 
Rouen  September  14,  1435,  and  was  interred  in  the 
Cathedral  of  Notre  Dame  there,  deeply  lamented  by 
the  English  people. 


THE   FATAL   CORRESPONDENCE. 


FACT,  WOT  FICTIOS'. 


BY    ELIZA    JULIA    SPARROW. 


'•  Am  I  awake,  or  is  it  all  illusion  ? "  — The  Roman  Fathek  :  Trag. 
"  CtBsar.    Et  tu,  Brute  ?    Then  fall,  Caesar."  —  Shakspeabe. 

It  was  a  busy  night  in  the  metropolis  of  Ireland  that 
20th  of  June  on  which  the  Queen  of  England  ascended 
the  throne.  Every  window  glittered  with  lights ;  and 
beautiful  as  gorgeous  were  the  many-colored  lamps 
which  decked  the  public  buildings  and  threw  their 
varied  hues  over  the  queenly  city.  Many  a  banquet 
was  spread  to  celebrate  the  event ;  and  many  a  ball 
room  was  filled  with  gay  and  brilliant  guests,  whilst 
bands  of  music  pealed  far  and  wide. 

It  was  on  that  night  that,  amongst  a  dazzling  crowd 

assembled  at  the  residence   of   Lady  S ,  in  

Square,  the  handsome  daughter  of  a  baronet  attracted 
the  admiration  of  the  lighthearted  and  imaginative 
23  (26.5) 


266  THE    FATAL    CORRES^O^DENCK. 

Alfred  Fitzallen,  then  a  student  in College.     Al 

fred  was  young  and  good  looking,  high  spirited  and 
ingenuous  ;  fresh  from  his  mother's  home,  his  mind  was 
as  pure  and  unsullied  as  it  had  been  in  childhood.  His 
figure  was  tall  and  manly,  and  not  wanting  in  grace ; 
and  his  whole  deportment  indicated  that  open  and  un- 
suspecting nature  which  is  at  once  so  pleasing  and 
attractive,  yet  which,  alas  !  too  frequently  leads  its  pos- 
sessor to  become  the  dupe  of  the  wily  or  the  vicious. 
"With  Alfred,  to  think  and  to  act  were  almost  simulta- 
neous ;  and  once  attracted  by  the  fair  and  stately  Helen 
B ,  it  took  him  but  another  moment  to  get  an  intro- 
duction and  demand  her  hand  in  the  dance.  Fre- 
quently, during  the  evening,  he  was  by  her  side ;  and 
more  than  once  he  "  led  her  through  the  glittering 
throng."     The  glow  of  a  summer's  morning  was  abroad 

ere  the  music  had  ceased  and  the  dance  was  done,  and 

» 

Alfred  returned  to  his  chambers  in College  amidst 

the  raillery  of  his  young  companions,  with  whom  he 
was  an  especial  favorite,  who  each  and  all  declaimed  that 
Fitzallen  had  positively  lost  his  heart. 

Days  passed  away,  and  every  time  they  met  the  jest 
was  renewed ;  and,  whenever  the  friends  chanced  to  sup 
together,  Helen's  health  was  drank  with  aU  the  honors, 
and  Alfred  called  upon  by  many  a  merry  voice  to  return 
thanks  for  his  lovely  enslaver. 


THE    FATAL    COREESPONDENCE.  267 

Thus  were  the  topic  and  the  railleiy  kept  up  for  some 
time,  when  one  morning  a  neatly-folded  and  delicatelj- 
written  billet  waa  placed  in  the  hands  of  Fitzallen  ;  and, 
on  opening  it,  what  was  his  astonishment  to  find  it  bore 

the  signature  of  Helen  B ,  and  contained  a  request 

for  the  loan  of  a  particular  work  from  a  certain  library 
to  which  he  had  free  access  with  instructions  to  have 

the  volume  left  at Street  till  called  for  !     For  an 

instant  it  crossed  his  mind  that  it  v.- as  singular  to  be 
thus  addressed  by  a  lady  almost  a  stranger  and  one 
whose  family  and  friends  were  altogether  unacquainted 
with  him ;  but  this  thought  was  momentary,  and  soon 
drowned  in  the  pleasure  of  being  thus  remembered  by 
his  gay  and  handsome  partner  of  the  last  ball.  The 
book  was  despatched,  accompanied  by  an  entreaty  that  a 
like  honor  and  pleasure  might  occasionally  be  granted 
him.  It  was  not  long  until  the  favor  was  repeated ; 
another  and  another  billet  came  and  was  answered ;  and 
thus  a  regular  correspondence  sprang  up,  which  shortly 
carried  words  of  more  than  friendly  import.     The  brief, 

bright  hour  upon  which  they  had  met  in  Lady  S 's 

ball  room  was  recurred  to  and  dwelt  upon  as  the  young 
and  the  ardent  know  how  to  dwell  upon  such  topics ; 

and  Alfred  ceased  to  think  of  Helen  B as  a  passing 

acquaintance,  and  began  to  watch  for  each  fresh  epistle 
with  trembling  interest. 


268  THE    FATAL    CORRESPONDENCE. 

In  this  correspondence  he  showed  a  mind  exalted 
above  the  usual  vanity  of  men,  in  the  love  of  displaying 
such  favors  when  bestowed  on  them  by  the  opposite  sex. 
With  true  delicacy  of  feeling  he  kept  it  secret  from  all 
save  one  favorite  friend,  young  Armand,  who  had  been 
his  companion  from  childhood,  and  to  whom  he  had  been 
in  the  habit  of  imparting  every  family  secret  as  if  they 
had  been  brothers.  Harry  Armand  was  a  few  years 
older  than  Alfred,  for  whom  he  felt  a  warm  attachment. 
Though  deficient  in  refinement  of  feeling,  he  was  never- 
theless goodhearted  and  generous,  and  possessed  many 
excellent  and  noble  qualities  to  warrant  our  hero's  par- 
tiaUty  for  him.  But,  gay  even  to  thoughtlessness,  his 
untiring  love  of  amusement  sometimes  led  him  into  fol- 
lies. Reckless  and  well  tempered,  there  was  no  frolic 
of  which  Harry  was  not  one  of  the  first  projectors  and 
foremost  actors;  there  was  nothing  too  hazardous  or 
troublesome  for  him  to  undertake  and  carry  through ; 
and  frequently  his  own  companions  were  the  subjects  of 
his  merry  and  at  times  somewhat  provoking  humor; 
but  the  sound  of  his  hearty  laugh  as  it  rang  upon  their 
ears,  and  the  inexhaustible  stores  of  fun  that  lurked  in 
his  half-closed  eyes  or  lingered  about  the  corners  of  his 
mouth,  told  but  too  plainly  that  it  was  useless  to  be 
angry  with  Harry. 

Weeks  and  months  had  rolled  over  since  the  night  of 


THE   FATAL    COKBESPONDENCE.  269 

ihe  ball ;  and  it  was  only  now  and  then  that  the  subject 
af  Fitzallen's  lost  heart  was  revived.  But  absence  from 
the  object  of  his  now  frequent  thoughts,  and  the  power 
which  Imagination  is  ever  sure  to  make  use  of  in  adorn- 
ing our  mind's  idols  in  her  brightest  colors,  were  doing 
their  work  on  the  heart  of  Alfred  Fitzallen.  She*had 
attracted  his  admiration  by  her  beauty  ;  and,  slight  as  a 
ball-room  acquaintance  is,  it  served  to  leave  an  interest- 
ing and  pleasing  impression  upon  his  mind.  This,  aided 
by  an  already  close  correspondence,  by  which  he  ob- 
served traits  of  a  delicate,  loving,  and  confiding  character, 
was  it  any  wonder  that  Alfred  fancied  her  a  faultless 
being,  and  was  really  in  love?  Immured  within  the 
close  precincts  of  a  college,  with  but  few  acquaintances  in 
town,  and  wholly  debarred  from  all  female  society  except 
the  snatch  he  had  of  it  at  a  chance  ball,  was  it  strange 
that  Helen  should  become  the  sole  object  of  his  thoughts, 
"  the  morning  star  of  memory  "  ?  And  there  was  a  high 
degree  of  romance  and  mystery  in  the  whole  proceeding 
which  served  to  give  it  a  deep  and  absorbing  interest. 

More  than  once  in  his  epistles  he  begged  to  be  per- 
mitted to  wait  upon  her  and  to  make  the  acquaintance 
of  her  family  and  friends  ;  but  this  proposal  was  at  all 
times  postponed  to  a  future  day,  and  latterly  he  forbore 
to  urge  it.  Helen's  letters  revealed,  as  we  before  men- 
tioned, a  loving  and  confidiRg  nature ;  therefore  he  fully 
23* 


270  THE    FATAL    CORRESPONDENCE. 

trusted  her.  "  She  has  her  own  reasons  for  not  permit- 
ting me  to  call  at  her  father's  house  at  present,"  thought 
he  ;  "  but  that  happiness  is  in  store."  He  trusted  with 
a  "  fearless  faith,"  and  he  was  happy. 

His  feelings  had  thus  ripened  into  an  attachment 
which  had  all  the  ennobling  effects  that  a  pure  attach- 
ment for  an  estimable  woman  is  ever  sure  to  produce. 
It  made  him  shun  every  thing  that  could  degrade  or 
lessen  him  in  the  eyes  of  her  whose  image  he  carried  in 
his  heart ;  it  made  him  delight  in  communing  with  his 
own  spirit  and  cultivating  his  fine  mind ;  and  being  des- 
tined to  push  his  way  through  life  by  embracing  a 
learned  profession,  he  studied  harder  and  more  closely 
than  heretofore,  led  on  and  cheered  by  words  of  kind- 
ness, interest,  and  affection  that  he  had  never  known  be- 
fore ;  and,  in  short,  he  came  to  feel  that  there  was  no 
difficulty  he  could  not  surmount  in  order  to  be  thought 
worthy  of  the  hand  of  Helen  B . 

The  routine  of  college  life  had  gone  on  —  as  it  had 
done  for  years  —  in  midnight  vigils  and  hard  study, 
comfortless  breakfast  tables  and  untidy  dressing  rooms ; 
and  when  the  morning  of  the  examinations  arrived  a 
considerable  degree  of  bustle  and  excitement  was  obser- 
vable, until  every  cap  and  gown  disappeared  within  the 
closed  doors  of  the  hall.  That  fearful  ordeal  passed,  and 
again  they  were  emancipated,  some  joyous  and  triumph- 


THE    FATAL    CORRESPONDENCE.  271 

ant^  others  downcast  and  disheartened,  to  seek  their 
domiciles  amidst  the  tumult  of  the  busy  city,  or  in  tlie 
small,  dark  abodes  appropriated  to  their  use  in  the  great 
square  of  the  college.  A  short  time  sufficed  to  rally 
every  disappointed  spirit,  and  soon  all  were  ready  to 
renew  the  jest  upon  his  fellow,  to  join  a  serenading 
party,  or  in  any  way  to  make  merry  with  their  friends. 
Thus  summer  and  autumn  had  been  succeeded  by  win- 
ter, and  spring  had  again  returned.  Tlie  air  was  fresh 
and  balmy,  and  the  sky  bright  and  cloudless,  as  the  two 

friends  walked  arm  in  arm  towards Square,  where 

the  band  of  the regiment  had  attracted  numbers 

of  pedestrians. 

"Well,  Armand,"  said  Alfred,  as  they  entered  the 
square,  "  I  have  partly  succeeded  at  last  in  my  wish  to 
be  permitted  to  visit  Helen.  Last  week  I  ventured  to 
repeat  the  request ;  and  in  her  reply  she  has  made  no 
opposition,  which  I  take  to  be  at  least  half  a  grant." 

"  I  am  glad  of  it,"  was  the  reply  ;  "  we  are  —  I  —  I 
am  sure  you  are  tiretl  of  it,  and  it  is  well  to  end  it  by 
seeing  the  girl." 

He  turned  abruptly  away  and  joined  some  ladies,  with 
whom  he  entered  into  an  animated  conversation.  Fitz- 
allen  was  not  less  lighthearted,  less  happy,  or  less  ca- 
pable of  enjoyment  than  he  had  ever  been  ;  but  his 
mind  was  engrossed  by  one  object,  which,  from  its  single* 


272  THE    FATAL    CORRESPONDENCE 

ness,  had  taken  a  powerful  hold  upon  it.  He  left  Ar- 
mand  to  his  own  diversions,  and  turned  towards  his 
lodgings,  repeating  the  words  of  his  friend,  "  Tired  of 
it !  end  it !  Little  he  knows  how  dear  has  every  word  of 
Helen's  become  to  me.  Little  he  dreams  how  that  fair 
and  guileless  being  has  won  her  way  to  my  heart." 

Next  day  found  Fitzallen  in  high  though  somewhat 
excited  spu'its,  having  been  urged  by  Armand  to  visit 
Helen  without  further  permission.  That  day  of  all  days 
the  reader  will  excuse  his  bestowing  more  than  ordinary 
care  upon  his  toilet,  and  seldom  had  such  care  been  so 
well  repaid.  In  the  afternoon  he  sallied  forth  in  all  the 
vigor  of  youth  and  strength.  Hope  and  joy  lit  up  his 
eye  and  flushed  his  cheek  as  he  bent  his  steps  towards 
the  haven  of  his  wishes,  thinking,  as  he  proceeded,  over 
the  not  unpleasing  novelty  of  his  position.  Often  had 
he  taken  the  same  direction  with  a  hope  of  getting  one 
glimpse  of  Helen,  but  always  returned  disappointed ;  and 
now  he  was  about  to  see  her,  —  although  without  her 
decided  permission,  —  but  still  to  see  her  at  last,  to  con- 
verse with  her,  to  hear  from  her  hps  the  revealings  of 
that  mind  which  he  had  learned  to  look  up  to  as  oi'  a 
superior  order.     These  thoughts  occupied  him  until  his 

arrival  at  the  residence  of  Sir  Francis  B .    His  heart 

beat  violently  as  his  summons  was  answered  by  a  foot- 
man, who  instantly  admitted  him  and  ushered  him  into 


THE   FATAL    COKRESPONDENCE.  273 

a  spacious  and  elegant  drawing  room,  which,  to  his  re- 
lief, he  found  unoccupied.  In  a  few  moments  the  door 
opened,  and  a  lady  entered,  in  whom  he  at  once  recog- 
nized Helen  B .     He  advanced  towards  her,  but  was 

checked  by  her  dropping  a  low  courtesy  and  requesting 
him  with  a  graceful  and  unembarrassed  air  to  be  seated. 
She  at  once  entered  into  conversation  with  him  on  the 
trifling  occurrences  of  the  day  with  the  ease  and  dignity 
of  one  accustomed  to  do  the  honors  of  her  father's 
house  —  which  was  the  case,  as  she  was  the  only  child 
of  Sir  Francis,  and  had  long  since  lost  her  mother. 
Somewhat  puzzled  and  abashed  by  her  manner,  Alfred 
experienced  a  painful  sinking  of  the  heart.  Was  she  a 
coquette,  thought  he,  that  she  would  not  recognize  him  ? 
Could  he  have  been  deceived  ?  Could  this  self-possessed 
and  indifferent  lady  be  the  tender,  the  kind,  the  gentle 
Helen  whom  fancy  had  so  often  painted,  and  whom  he 
expected  to  see  trembling  and  shrinking  with  a  sweet 
bashfulness  when  brought  into  the  actual  presence  of 
him  who  had  so  long  been  the  sharer  of  her  every 
thought  ?  He  felt  like  one  in  a  dream.  At  length  he 
summoned  courage  to  recur  to  their  first  meeting  at  Lady 

S 's  ball.     She  replied  that  she  well  remembered  the 

ball,  as  it  had  been  her  first,  but  she  did  not  recollect 
having  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  him  there.  "  But  for- 
give me,"  she  added  hastily,  and  with  a  smile,  observing 


274  THE   FATAL    CORRESPONDENCE. 

the  shade  that  crossed  his  face ;  "  you  must  forgive  me, 
Mr.  Fitzallen,  if  I  cannot  exactly  call  to  memory  every 
partner  that  led  me  out  at  my  first  ball."  Tliis  was  said 
with  so  much  frankness  and  courtesy  that  it  was  impos- 
sible to  doubt  its  sincerity.  Alfred  felt  bewildered; 
something  was  wrong,  and  he  could  hardly  tell  what,  in 
the  confusion  of  his  thoughts ;  but,  at  all  events,  he  came 
to  the  resolution  of  unravelling  the  mystery,  cost  what 
it  might.  The  delicacy  and  awkwardness  of  his  present 
situation  were  as  nothing  to  the  intense  pain  that  throbbed 
in  his  temples  and  weighed  down  his  whole  being ;  and 
without  further  preamble,  he  frankly,  though  timidly, 
stated  that  he  had  been  under  the  impression,  for  many 
months,  of  having  had  the  honor  and  happiness  of  a 
correspondence  with  her.  The  lady  colored  deeply,  and 
astonishment  was  depicted  on  her  countenance  ;  and  she 
asked  in  a  haughty  tone  how  could  he  suppose  that  she 
would  enter  into  a  clandestine  correspondence,  such  as 
he  described,  with  a  perfect  stranger.  Alfred  answered 
her  as  he  best  could,  and  gasped  to  hide  himself  from 
the  sight  of  her  who  had  been  his  dream  by  night  and 
his  thought  by  day.  Helen  had  lost  none  of  her  loveli- 
ness since  he  last  beheld  lier.  The  same  stately  step  and 
gi'aceful  mien  were  there ;  the  same  earnest  eyes  and 
musical  voice  ;  but  slie  was  not  the  Helen  his  fancy  had 
painted  ;  and  lie  left  tl:e  hoii.  c  inuki'  the  mournful  im- 


THE   FATAL    CORRESPONDENCE.  275 

pression  that  he  had  been  deceived  —  doubly  deceived  — 
how  or  by  whom  he  knew  not,  and  that  he  had  been 
worshipping   an    imaginary   being,   and    not    the   real 

Helen  B .     With  rapid  steps  he  hurried  through  the 

city ;  the  idol  that  had  so  long  possessed  his  heart  thus 
suddenly  shattered,  it  throbbed  with  a  new  and  strange 
sensation  of  agony,  and  an  acute  sense  of  shame  at 
having  been  betrayed  into  making  such  an  avowal  as  he 
had  made  to  Miss  B .  To  seek  comfort  in  the  sym- 
pathy of  Armand  was  his  first  thought;  and,  entering 
his  apartment,  he  was  met  by  him  with  his  usual  happy 
countenance ;  but,  observing  the  altered  looks  of  Fitzal- 
len,  Armand  started  back. 

"Armand,"  said  he,  scarcely  able  to  articulate  the 
words,  "I  have  been  deceived — basely  deceived  — 
how  and  by  whom  I  know  not." 

"  Come,  come,  Alfred,"  returned  his  friend ;  "  you  must 
not  take  it  so  badly  as  this.  It  was  all  a  joke  amongst 
us  —  I  assure  you  it  was  all  a  joke.  I  had  no  idea  you 
would  feel  it  thus.  Come,  man,  you  must  cheer  up  acd 
forgive  us.     It  was  but  a  jest,  and  you  must  forget  it." 

Alfred  stood  erect  and  motionless  as  if  rooted  to  the 
earth  —  his  lips  of  an  ashy  paleness,  his  eyes  dilated, 
and  his  whole  countenance  overspread  with  the  pallor  of 
death,  whilst  Armand  continued,  — 

"To  say  the  truth,  when  we  commenced  the  corre- 


276  THE   FATAL    CORRESPONDENCE. 

Bpondence  we  had  no  intention  of  carrying  it  on  for  any 
length ;  but  we  did  not  know  how  to  put  a  stop  to  it ; 
and,  when  we  all  got  thoroughly  tired  of  it,  we  thought 
your  visiting  Helen  was  the  best  way  to  end  it,  and 
therefore  I  recommended  you  to  go.  And  here,"  con- 
tinued he,  opening  a  small  desk  and  taking  out  a  packet, 
"  to  convince  you  it  was  all  amongst  ourselves,  here  are 
your  letters." 

Armand  did- not  observe  the  fearful  workings  in  the 
countenance  of  his  friend  during  this  speech ;  but,  as  he 
turned  to  lay  the  packet  on  the  table,  the  words,  "  And 
it  was  you  —  you  — "  broke  from  Fitzallen  in  a  deep, 
sepulchral  voice ;  and  he  fell  heavily  on  the  floor.  Hor- 
ror stricken  and  terrified,  Armand  called  loudly  for  as- 
sistance. The  room  was  quickly  filled  by  the  party  of 
friends  who  had  been  on  the  watch  to  hear  the  result 
of  his  visit,  and  who  had  thus,  for  their  own  amusement, 
deceived  a  companion  who  was  a  favorite  with  all. 
Alfred  was  carried  to  bed  and  medical  aid  promptly 
called  in. 

"  He  is  very  ill,"  said  Armand  to  his  companions,  as 
they  quitted  the  chamber  by  order  of  the  physician.  "  Is 
it  possible  his  feelings  could  have  thus  overcome  him  ?  " 

"  We  carried  it  too  far,"  said  several,  with  one  voice. 

"  Yet  who  could  have  thought  it  would  affect  him  so 
deeply?" 


THE   FATAL    CORRESPONDENCE.  277 

"Ah,"  said  a  pale  young  man,  who  had  not  before 
spoken,  "  it  was  kept  up  too  long.  I  often  advised  you 
to  beware  of  such  a  jest ;  but  you  all  laughed  at  what 
you  termed  my  *  fine  feelings.'  The  shock  he  received 
during  his  visit  was  as  much  as  he  could  bear ;  for  I 
saw  him  as  he  returned  like  a  blasted  oak  —  he  who 
went  forth  in  the  morning  full  of  life  and  vigor.  Then 
the  double  blow  which  Armand's  confession  gave  him  has 
wholly  prostrated  him.     God  grant  it  may  end  well ! " 

He  left  the  room ;  and  how  truly  had  he  spoken !  It 
was  the  second  blow  that  had  given  the  deepest  wound. 
In  his  anguish  and  humiliation  he  had  fled  for  sympathy 
to  the  bosom  of  his  friend ;  and  he  heard  from  the  lips 
of  that  friend  that  he  was  the  deceiver !  The  strong 
man  was  overcome  by  the  wild  tumult  of  his  feelings, 
and  sunk  beneath  them.  The  following  morning  he  was 
pronounced  in  a  brain  fever  ;  and  the  tidings  brought  a 
terrible  lesson  to  those  who  had  sported  with  his  feelings 
and  affections.  A  heavy  gloom  overspread  eveiy  face, 
and  told  that  remorse  was  avenging  Alfred. 

The  giddy  triflers  grew  old  and  sage  in  their  nightly 
watch  over  their  victim  ;  their  ears  tingled  with  his  fran- 
tic ravings ;  and  men  who  had  never  bent  the  knee  since 
they  bent  it  in  childhood  at  their  mothers'  feet  bent  it 
now  to  pray  that  he  might  be  spared  to  speak  one  word 
of  forgiveness.  He  was  spared,  but  not  to  speak  his 
24 


278  THE    FATAL    CORRESPONDENCE. 

forgivciness  —  nevermore  to  mingle  amongst  them  I 
Alfred  Fitzallen  rose  from  his  bed  a  madman !  His 
fine,  manly  form  enclosed  in  a  strait  waistcoat,  he  was 
borne  in  a  close  carriage  from  the  sight  of  those  who 
branded  themselves  as  his  worse  than  murderers,  accom- 
panied by  the  physician  and  attendants  of  that  hospital 
where  those  afflicted  with  that  direful  malady  find  a 
temporary  relief  or  wear  out  their  melancholy  existence 
within  its  walls. 

Years  have  passed.  Armand's  grief  threw  him  into  a 
consumption  which  carried  him  to  an  early  grave.  The 
other  partners  in  the  jest  mourned  long  and  sincerely 
over  Alfred's  fate  and  their  own  folly.  Not  long  since 
Alfred  was  dismissed  from  the  hospital  an  idiot  —  the 
mournful  victim  of  a  practical  joke. 


SONNET. 

BY    CALDER   CAMPBELL. 

Around  us  still  extends  a  paradise 
In  the  true  hearts  that  love  us.     Friendship  seta 
Young  saplings  all  about,  that  turn  to  trees, 
Abundant  in  the  fruitage  of  rich  thoughts 
And  generous  emotions.     Round  us  rise 
Prolific  flowers,  which  vernal  dewfall  wets 
With  gushing  odor  —  whence  do  stingless  bees 
Gather  unsating  honey.     Round  us  floats 
A  breath  of  fearless  health ;  and  with  us  strays 
A  spirit  of  cheerful  industry,  which  keeps 
The  mind  from  brooding  on  its  idle  cares, 
Intent  on  aiding  others.     Eden  ways 
May  still  be  traversed ;  and  where  Adam  sleeps 
Quietly  near  Eve,  may  we  breathe  Eden  airs ! 

(279) 


FAR  FROM  THE   HUM  OF   MEN. 

An  intimate  friend  of  mine  in  Paris,  the  Vicomte 

de ,  inhabited  for  fourteen  years  a  pleasant  entresol 

in  the  Boulevard  des  Italiens.  Young,  rich,  and  healthy, 
he  enjoyed  life  as  only  those  favored  mortals  do  whose 
purses  are  crammed  with  bank  notes  and  whose  limbs 
are  untouched  by  rheumatism. 

In  the  first  year  of  his  eighth  lustre  the  viscount  sud- 
denly remembered  that  eight  times  five  make  forty  ;  and 
one  fine  evening,  coming  out  of  the  Cafe  de  Paris  to  go 
to  the  opera,  he  in  like  manner  acquired  the  bitter  cer- 
tainty of  the  fragility  of  human  things.  Lobster  salad 
had  lost  its  flavor ;  Meyerbeer  no  longer  pleased  the  ear 
nor  Fanny  EUsler  the  eye ;  and  my  young  friend  felt 
that  he  could  easily  play  the  part  of  the  great  St.  An- 
thony in  the  midst  of  the  seductions  of  the  French  me- 
tropolis. He  reentered  his  apartments,  superintended 
the  immediate  packing  of  his  furniture,  placed  "  To  let" 
in  his  balcony,  took  a  conveyance  for  the  north,  and  on 
the  1st  of  May  settled  himself  in  a  charming  little  villa 


FAR   FROM    THE    HUM    OF    MEN.  281 

about  a  gunshot  from  my  house,  a  very  nest  of  shade  ver- 
dure and  flowers.  Though  this  paradise  was  his  own 
property,  he  had  never  before  visited  it  save  about  once 
a  year  when  he  did  not  happen  to  prefer  Switzerland 
or  Italy. 

"  My  dear  friend,"  he  exclaimed,  the  first  day  he 
called  upon  me,  "  I  am  now  one  of  you.  I  have  left  far 
behind  the  whirl  of  the  modern  Babylon,  where  they 
manufacture  joys  as  they  fabricate  Seltzer  water.  I 
shall  henceforth  live  for  myself  and  a  few  friends.  I 
return  to  natural  pleasures  —  to  a  calm  and  real  exist* 
ence;  and  my  last  sigh  will  be  breathed  beneath  the 
old  ancestral  oaks,  far  from  importunate  fools,  from 
deceitful  man,  and  doubly  deceitful  woman.  In  short, 
far  from  the  hum  of  men." 

By  the  2d  of  May  my  new  neighbor  had  bought 
a  spade,  two  rakes,  four  watering  pots,  and  a  pruning 
knife ;  he  had  likewise  furnished  himself  with  sundry 
jackets  of  coarse  cloth  such  as  the  peasants  wear,  and 
headgear  to  correspond.  Dispensing  forever  with  var- 
nished boots,  he  purchased  a  pair  of  sabots  fit  for  any 
weather,  and  at  length  considered  himself  at  all  points  a 
country  gentleman. 

The  first  day  of  his  installation  the  sixty  peasants 
who  formed  the  male  population  of  the  hamlet  on  the 
estate  arrived,  with  a  drum  at  their  head,  and  a  fiddle 
24* 


282  FAB   FEOM   THE   HUM    OF   MEN. 

biinging  up  the  rear,  and  arranged  themselves  in  a  circle 
at  the  foot  of  the  hall  steps,  where  the  poor  viscount,  who 
had  so  fuUj  reckoned  upon  peace,  was  compelled  to  ap- 
pear to  receive  their  compliments.  So  highly  did  they 
vaunt  the  virtues,  the  high  breeding,  and,  above  all,  the 
generosity  of  the  descendant  of  their  ancient  lords,  that 
that  honored  individual  could  do  no  less  than  open  wide 
the  strings  of  the  purse  whose  inexhaustible  riches  the 
village  schoolmaster,  the  official  author  of  the  dithyrambic, 
had,  among  other  topics,  so  loudly  sung.  Then  the  drum 
beat,  the  violin  gave  forth  its  repertory  of  village  polkas, 
and  the  peasants  shouted,  "  Vive  Monsieur  le  Comte  ! " 

At  these  shouts  and  the  appeal  of  the  fiddler  the 
female  portion  of  the  hamlet  could  no  longer  contain 
themselves.  Like  one  single  shepherdess  they  rushed 
to  the  lawn,  where  the  young  girls  pounced  on  the  par- 
terre and  improvised  gigantic  bouquets,  with  which  they 
covered  the  jacket  of  M.  le  Comte,  who,  according  to 
ancient  usage,  placed  his  right  hand  upon  his  heart,  and 
his  left  in  his  pocket,  and  cried,  "  Merci,  mes  enfans  ! " 
Thereu2)on  a  shower  of  five-franc  pieces  responded  to  the 
vivats,  and  the  new  lord  of  the  manor  could  not  in  po- 
liteness decline  to  open  the  ball  with  the  first  damsel 
who  came  to  his  hand. 

When  once  we  launch  out  it  is  difficult  to  stop. 
Upon  a  sign  from  the  viscount,  a  hogshead  of  wine  wag 


FAR   FKOM   THE    HUM    OF   MEN.  283 

broached.  Then  the  vivats  rose  to  a  pitch  of  frenzy  — 
the  men  sang  all  manner  of  Marseillaises,  the  women 
outscreamed  a  first  trombone  of  hussars,  the  babies  cried, 
and  the  mastiffs  in  the  court  yard  added  their  contralto  to 
this  thundering  concert. 

The  evening  came ;  it  was  time  to  separate.  The 
viscount  hastened  to  bed  and  endeavored  to  sleep ;  but 
a  frightful  nightmare  oppressed  him.  He  dreamed  that 
they  drank  all  the  wine  in  the  cellar,  that  they  devas- 
tated his  thickets  of  roses,  that  his  chest  was  emptied  of 
five  hundi-ed  francs,  and  that  he  caught  a  rheumatic 
ague.  Upon  awaking  he  felt  very  ill,  and,  counting  the 
cost  of  the  day  before,  he  found  that  the  dream  was  a 
reality.  Thanks  to  friction,  repose,  and  perhaps  the  ab- 
sence of  the  doctor,  he  was  well  and  afoot  again  in 
eight  days. 

"  After  all,"  said  he  to  himself,  "  it  was  a  necessary 
tribute  to  custom ;  and  these  good  people  really  appear  to 
love  me  heartily.  Now  that  I  have  satisfied  the  usages 
of  the  place,  I  shall  certainly  enjoy  the  silence  and  soli- 
tude I  long  for ;  for  here,  at  thirty  leagues  from  Tortoni's, 
I  am,  or  ought  to  be,  far  from  the  hum  of  men.'* 

Just  as  he  finished  this  consoling  monologue,  up  came 
the  garde  champetre  in  his  otter-skin  cap  and  respect- 
fully signified  to  the  viscount  a  little  joroces  verbal — the 
consequence  of  the  musket  shots  that  had  been  fired  in 


284  FAR   FROM   THE    HUM    OF   MEN. 

his  honor  a  week  before,  and  which  had  been  strictly 
prohibited  by  a  municipal  regulation.  So  complete  had 
been  the  tumult  that  my  friend  could  not  doubt  the  word 
of  the  officer ;  and  as  the  mayor  was  a  republican,  who 
would  enjoy  making  an  example  of  monsieur  the  aristo- 
crat, the  viscount  judged  it  best  to  submit  to  the  fine  im- 
posed. He  paid  it  at  once,  and  hoped  at  length  to  enjoy 
the  peace  he  sighed  for. 

He  had  already  put  on  his  blue  and  white  striped 
jacket,  and  armed  himself  with  his  garden  knife,  for 
the  purpose  of  pruning  his  first  rose  tree,  when  the 
servant  announced  Gros-Pierre  and  his  spouse  Mathu- 
rine.  They  came  to  ask  M.  le  Vicomte  to  be  the  god- 
father of  their  seventh  son ;  and  as  this  is  an  honor  a 
good  Roman  Catholic  can  never  refuse,  my  neighbor, 
perforce,  consented.  He  assisted  at  the  baptism  of  the 
young  thresher,  of  course  accompanying  his  services  by 
a  feast  to  the  friends  on  both  sides  and  a  few  hundred 
sou  pieces  to  Franpoise  the  godmother. 

In  eight  days  more  the  viscount  w^as  at  his  eighth 
godfathership  ;  and  as  the  citizens  of  my  arrondissement 
seldom  stop  short  of  their  fifteenth  paternization,  it  soon 
came  to  pass  that  my  neighbor  spent  nearly  all  Ills 
mornings  at  the  font. 

He  now  went  another  step.  Invited  to  all  the  mar- 
riages and  funerals,  he  quitted  the  font  but  for  the  altar, 


FA&  FBOM   THE   HUM    OF    MEN.  285 

and  had  no  sooner  given  away  the  bride  than  he  had 
to  bear  the  pall. 

My  neighbor,  however,  was  yet  but  in  the  honeymoon 
of  village  usefulness.  He  beheld  himself  loved,  hon- 
ored, sought  after  —  a  little  too  much  —  by  the  good 
peasants  who  surrounded  him.  Eighteen  hundred  and 
fifty-two  approached,  and  who  could  tell  what  might 
happen  ?  It  was  as  well  to  cook  a  little  ragout  of  popu- 
larity beforehand.  The  viscount  denied  neither  his  door 
nor  his  services  to  his  new  friends. 

As  he  came  from  the  capital,  and  as  every  Parisian 
is  supposed  to  be  gifted  with  a  universal  genius,  there 
was  no  process  to  plead  against,  no  lease  to  renew,  no 
clover  crop  to  secure,  but  my  friend  was  consulted. 
Did  a  difference  ai'ise,  the  disputants  straightway  rushed 
to  the  presence  of  M.  le  Vicomte.  They  explained  the 
matter  in  hand  ;  he  gave  his  advice ;  and  the  interview 
usually  ended  by  the  belligerent  parties,  as  in  duty 
bound,  falling  to  fisticuffs  in  the  very  audience  chamber 
of  their  arbitrator.  He  was  at  once  the  village  justice, 
advocate,  and  notary. 

But  he  did  not  rest  here.  He  became  its  physician. 
"  Medecin  molgre  Itii,"  be  it  understood.  They  forced 
him  to  say  what  he  thought  of  sucli  a  one's  cut  finger, 
of  such  another's  asthma;  they  awoke  him  in  the 
middle  of  the  night,  that  he  might  apply  plasters  and 


286  FAR   FROM   THE    HUM    OF    MEX. 

administer  enu  sucree.  He  was  consulted  by  the  entire 
community,  insomuch  that  he  at  length  attempted  leeches, 
and  even  ventured  to  lay  a  sacrilegious  hand  upon  the 
lancet.  But  here  the  faculty  awaited  him.  The  officer 
of  health  of  the  neighboring  village,  who  owed  him  a 
grudge  for  having  recovered  without  a  prescription,  sur- 
prised him  in  the  very  act  of  phlebotomy.  The  man 
made  his  report  in  the  proper  quarter,  and  the  correc- 
tional police  taught  my  noble  neighbor  that  philanthropy 
becomes  amenable  to  the  penal  law  from  the  moment 
that  it  launches  out  into  the  piercing  of  veins  and  the 
application  of  leeches. 

The  viscount,  who  was  far  from  wishing  to  resign  his 
post  of  general  benefactor,  now  thought  he  would  con- 
fine himself  to  an  employment  out  of  reach  of  legal 
interference.  Recognized  from  the  first  as  the  only 
decent  writer  in  the  community,  he  became  public  scribe 
to  the  hamlet.  From  morning  till  evening  his  little 
cabinet  was  crowded  with  all  who  had  a  cousin  at  a  dis- 
tance, a  sister  in  service,  or  a  lover  with  his  regiment 
My  neighbor  thus  composed  more  than  three  folio  vol- 
umes of  epistles  in  every  variety  of  style.  The  pen- 
knife superseded  the  pruning  knife ;  the  watering  pots 
gave  way  to  the  inkstand. 

Two  days  ago  the  crisis  arrived.  The  young  and 
fresh   Fran9oise,   who  had  played  godmother  to  mj 


FAR   FKOM   THE   HUM   OF   MEN.  287 

friend's  part  of  godfather  at  his  first  baptism,  was  seated 
near  his  desk,  explaining  how  she  wished  to  break  with 
Fran9ois  Dumanet,  a  corporal  on  furlough,  who  was  des- 
perately jealous  of  all  the  shepherds  of  the  hamlet.  She 
had  come  to  ask  the  viscount  to  arrange  the  "matter,  see- 
ing that  Jacquat,  the  farmer's  head  man,  had  asked  her 
in  marriage  ;  and  Jacquat  was  a  likely  lad,  who  could 
easily  earn  his  thirty  crowns  in  the  year,  without  count- 
ing the  oats  he  pilfered  from  the  stable  and  the  eggs  he 
picked  up  in  the  poultry  yard. 

The  good  viscount  was  bestowing  upon  his  pretty  cli- 
ent the  most  fatherly  counsels  when  the  door  suddenly 
opened,  and  Corporal  Dumanet,  with  cuffs  turned  up  and 
mustaches  bristUng  with  rage,  entered  hastily.  He 
first  applied  his  cane  lustily  to  the  shoulders  of  his  be- 
loved, and  then,  faUing  upon  the  innocent  viscount,  proved 
how  very  possible  it  is  for  our  best  intentions  to  be  mis- 
taken by  a  jealous  lover.  This  was  too  much  for  my 
friend.  He  seized  the  first  weapon  that  came  to  hand, 
and  retaliated  the  caning  by  a  thrust  with  the  pruning 
knife. 

Poor  fellow !  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  had  an  op- 
portunity of  using  it ;  and  so  excellently  did  he  profit  by 
this  one,  and  so  neatly  did  he  operate  upon  his  adver- 
sary's face,  that  it  never  lost  from  that  day  the  marks 
of  his  skill.     But  arboriculture,  applied  to  the  human 


288  FAR   FROM   THE   HUM    OF   MEN. 

species,  is  forbidden  by  the  law  as  well  as  the  unprofes- 
sional exercise  of  leeches  and  lancet.  The  viscount 
spent  forty-eight  hours  in  a  tedious  negotiation  with 
Dumanet,  which  was  only  yesterday  evening  brought  to 
a  conclusion.  He  bought  a  substitute  for  the  corporal, 
who  remained  in  the  village  and  espoused  Fran9oise. 
The  business  cost  from  twelve  hundred  to  fifteen  hun- 
dred francs ;  but  then  my  neighbor  received  a  pressing 
invitation  to  the  nuptials. 

This  morning  I  was  coursing  near  my  house,  when 
I  saw  a  vehicle  whirling  along  the  high  road  towai'ds 
Paris.  Within  it  was  the  viscount,  who  looked  out  of 
the  window,  and,  observing  me,  ordered  the  driver  to 
stop.  "  My  friend,"  cried  he  as  I  came  within  hearing, 
"  au  revoir  this  winter  at  Paris !  I  precede  you  to  the 
modern  Babylon.  I  return  to  my  pleasant  entresol, 
which  happily  has  not  yet  met  with  a  new  tenant.  I 
go  to  seek  calm,  leisure,  peace  in  the  Boulevard  des 
Italiens.  I  take  with  me  a  rose  tree,  that  I  shall  prime 
on  my  window  sill,  and  two  strawberry  plants,  to  water 
in  my  dressing  room.  I  leave  hamlets,  shepherds,  and 
the  shady  grove,  to  live  and  die  far  from  the-  hum  of 
men." 


N 


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